Infiltrator  New Awakening
by Philip Drake
Summary: Commander Shepard has returned, but from where?  This story follows the events of Mass Effect 2 game play.  As the story progresses, the emphasis will shift from the main story line of the game to the events behind game play.
1. Chapter 1: The Lazarus Project

_**This work is an attempt to practice my writing skills, specifically transitions and staging plotlines. As such, I am using the excellent story laid out through the Mass Effect series. I claim no rights whatsoever to the characters, setting, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect universe. **_

_**This story follows the events of the game play of Mass Effect 2. I made extensive use of the script in the first several chapters to get the feel and style of the characters as well as to set the stage for the story as it seems best to interweave the plot points into the story as it goes. Therefore, there may be some minor spoilers if you've never played the Mass Effect series. I will be doing less of this as the story sinks deeper, and eventually this story will be a complete counter-story to the primary plot-line of the game. Chapter one is pretty large since it has to carry all the starting points. Please let me know what you think.**_

* * *

><p><span>Prelude<span>

_Everyone knows what happens. We don't acknowledge it, but we know. We know because there are those who have been there and come back. They all say the same thing. Your life replayed, a tunnel of light, and a feeling of . . . a presence . . . a calm, serene quality of . . . acceptance. That's what it feels like. Ultimate acceptance._

_No need for pretense. No need to hide your true self. No need for ego. Just existing, the way you truly are, with no strife, or politics, or apologies. Well, not really existing though, is it? That's the whole point. I was once alive. . . . once. The concept seems strange now – alien. It's hard to even come to grips with what that was. Was? Even that's a difficult concept. There was once a "being alive." But now there isn't. Or rather, there is something else._

_It's not floating. There's nothing to float in. There's nothing. Nothing at all. But . . .everything. It's an idea worthy of thinking about. But there's no need to contemplate anything really. There's nothing wrong with it. There's nothing wrong with anything. Everything is just as it's supposed to be. Acceptance. Contentment. Profound solace. _

_There is one thing though . . . a matter of importance; importance to the existence of all things. But it doesn't matter anymore. That part is over. I did what I could. I did more than I could. I had friends who helped. I couldn't have done it on my own. They made it possible. When it counted, they made it happen. They were my crew, my team . . . my family. . . . I miss them._

_They're not really gone, of course. They're right here with me. Or, I'm with them. Something like that. It's complicated. But . . . I still miss them._

_But it's warm and wonderful here. Now. In the only now that is. Where everything is all right. _

". . . something wrong."

"She's reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness of her surroundings."

_Pain? . . . short of breath. Why?_

"Oh my god, Miranda. I think she's waking up."

_Lights. Eyes. Pain. I'm looking up?_

"Damn it, Wilson! She's not ready yet. Give her the sedative!" _She's looking down at me. Not my friend._ "Shepard - don't try to move." _Touching my hand. I feel!_ "Just lie still. Try to stay calm."

_Calm! This is not calm. What was calm before? What is this? I'm not alive anymore. This isn't where I am now! What is this?_

"Heart rate still climbing. Brain activity is off the charts."

_Air! Lungs! My lungs are on fire! My chest hurts just trying to not breathe anymore. Gravity. There's a down. Things move here. She's walking around me. Pain!_

"Stats pushing into the red zone. It's not working!"

"Another dose. Now!"

_Dose?_ They're putting me back under. _Under?_ I must be hooked up to an autodoc. My system isn't reacting well to the trauma. _There is no system! This is not! This can't be!_ The increased dosage may have an adverse effect on my neuro-structure. I've got to control myself. Remember my training. Try to work with the medication.

"Heart rate dropping." Control, soldier. Control. "Stats falling back into normal range."

_Her face._ I don't remember her. Uniform. Science team?

"That was too close. We almost lost her."

"I told you your estimates were off. Run the numbers again."

She shows interest. Agenda? Perhaps. But she's in this betting on my outcome, not my failure. It's in her eyes.

Trust. She won't betray me. Not if I place my trust in her.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 1: The Lazarus Project<span>**

"Wake up Commander."

_No dreams. There are no dreams in this place._

"Shepard, do you hear me? Get out of that bed now – this facility is under attack."

Alert. I'm awake. I shouldn't be. I was free falling from orbit last I remember. Feels like I've been sucker punched. God! My whole face hurts. But if there's combat . . .

"Shepard, your scars aren't healed, but I need you to get moving. This facility is under attack."

Scars. Well, that would explain the pain. In that case, I'll put it behind me and react to the tactical- "Argh!" Feels like my ribs are broken too. Maybe I shouldn't get up so fast until I know what I'm working with here.

The medical room is brightly lit with surgically clean windows that show gun fire in the corridor outside. The disembodied voice wasn't lying. Combat is underway. Or, the disembodied voice has gone to the trouble of making it look like the environment is under fire. There are some who would go to incredible lengths to coerce someone into doing their dirty work.

"There's a pistol in the locker on the other side of the room. Hurry!"

This is a sophisticated lab, but only built for one subject. In fact, it's incredible how much tech was dedicated to only this one room. There's an entire production facility in here.

"You don't have time to wait around, Shepard!"

A prompt for haste from a disembodied voice over the internal voice channel. There's either a need for urgency or someone wants to limit the time anybody has to think about things. Fortunately, thinking quickly is one of Jennifer Shepard's hidden talents. They call it leadership, but it's really a knack for a quick, insightful assessment of a situation, followed by action that has the galaxy singing her praises. It brought down the Geth. It brought down Saren. It brought down Sovereign. Now, it's moving her to the other thing that Commander Shepard is known for – putting bullets in things that don't take well to having bullets in them.

Except. . . "This pistol doesn't have a thermal clip."

The old system of firing ME projectiles carved from a block of material was abandoned when council space evaluated the kind of damage done by the Geth weapons. Higher caliber projectiles means higher damage thresholds. But it also means more heat. At the rate standard weapons unleash their payload, the air in the firearm itself heats up even if the mass within touches nothing once released.

Firefights in a vacuum once prompted warfare technology to make all weapons more contained. There wasn't much need for a cooling system when you're in a vacuum, floating around in zero-gravity. But the Geth brought warfare back to the street level. Now, it's all about discharging your thermal clip before your weapon becomes a slag-mitten.

But without a clip, the weapon simply doesn't fire. This limits the combat effectiveness of a pistol to the range of hand-to-hand combat. Not incredibly difficult, unless you're up against mechs, but Shepard's skills lie first in the use of accuracy at long range – sometimes absurdly long ranges. A point of pride she felt whenever Garrus would drop his jaw while lining up the telescopic sights with the Mach III cannon only to see the head of the Geth explode from her sniper shot.

But now the final clasp locks into place, holding her spare N7 armor to her like a glove, and she still has nothing but spit and harsh language for the unknown enemy. What she really needs is a thermal clip. "It's in Med Bay, we'll get you a clip from . . . Damn it!"

She spotted it too. Pressure finding a way out of a tank of volatile chemicals.

"Those canisters by the door are going to blow. Get behind cover, now."

Movement, again, prompting pain. As though the muscles in her body weren't familiar with the concept. Her reactions were sluggish. Slow. Dangerous. If she were caught in a fight with a formidable foe, she could be unable to secure victory only because her body will not respond correctly.

She made it to the barrier glass and went to crouch behind it. "Keep your head down, Shepard! Shield yourself from the blast." A disciplined soldier with a combat trained figure capable of all forms of battle, it was alarming how ill-respondent her body was being. She forced herself into a deep crouch as the canister exploded, showering the area by the door with flaming debris.

"Someone's hacking security trying to kill you. Look for a thermal clip for your pistol."

Again, a prompt for action. Was the voice trying to give her the intel she would need to fend off an attacker? Or set the stage for the take down of proper judgment at the critical moment? No time for depth of analysis now though. Not when the clip slides so easily into the butt of the gun.

She moved through the doors into a prep chamber. Several small tables were tipped making a low barrier. "Looks like they set up a barricade to try holding the mechs off."

Mechs. Good thing she found the clip. Punching metal always goes badly for the organic fist.

"Look out!" Sounds from the elevated entrance to the chamber brought her into awareness of an armed mech, approaching in battle mode. She slid behind a supply crate full of solid-packed medigel. Some kind of hybrid gel design. There was no time to read up on it.

The first shot hit the shoulder, rendering the left arm useless. The second was on the upper right of the "head," putting the unit out of action. This was cause for concern. Her skills had deteriorated badly if she couldn't nail the thing in the faceplate at only 8 meters.

"Keep moving, we need to get to the shuttles."

She moved up to where the droid had entered. A cargo hall opened up with exits at the other end of the room.

"Shepard, security mechs are closing in on your position. Take cover!"

Again, she took refuge behind the blast-proof glass half-wall. Not much cover, but easy to spot your opponent through. Of course, it was also easy for them to spot you.

"Don't take any chances. Stay under cover while you take out those mechs."

What a waste of ammo. Only twelve meters. Twelve meters! She was getting upset with herself. Combat efficiency was never one of her weak points. But now it seemed she had a lot of catching up to do. She would either have to get up to speed very quickly or compensate for the atrophy of her skills.

"Nice work, Shepard."

She frowned. "Nice for you," she thought, "my range instructor would have put me on latrine duty for a week for that sideshow."

Through the door and onward. Two people in uniform had their backs to the barrier window while a heavy mech stalked them down, firing nonstop. No cover. Low ordnance firearms for protection. Poor bastards never had a chance.

"Don't waste time. I can't keep the mechs distracted for long."

Distracted? Were these people being used to buy her time?

"I can't just leave them," she thought. Then, a resigned turn as it seemed there was no way to help them either. Best to do what she could where she could do her best.

The next door opened onto a balcony over an entrance corridor.

"More reinforcements on their way. Grab the grenade launcher off the security officers' body."

A grenade launcher. Not her preferred heavy weapon, but has the slight advantage of a smaller need for finesse – the thing she was lacking at the moment. This could be her saving grace. A launcher with full ordnance could easily get her through a good deal of these facility corridors. She checked the ammo readout. 3.

"Here come the mechs. Use the grenade launcher to take them out."

Well, it was in-hand now, and the doors were opening. Behind them were enough mechs to make her day very bad indeed. A single round went into their midst and scattered their parts along the hallway.

"Take the elevator down one floor."

She could have just vaulted the balcony. She's done that before. But there's this feeling that she should take this body to an obstacle course or two just to see how she fares against the Jennifer of old. Then again, this is sort of an obstacle course of its own after all.

A jet of flame shot steadily across the doorway from a coupling ruptured by the grenade that took out the mechs, cutting off further passage.

"Hurry! Get to the door. Run!"

She broke into a sprint, storming through the flame jet. As good a test as any for the old flesh and- "Ah!" Something in her right hip gave a painful jolt in protest of the acceleration. Something that didn't attach well or as completely as it should have. Not a crippling issue in any event, but a cause of discomfort.

"You're doing . . . Head to the . . . We'll meet . . ." Static crackled between the words, making it difficult to make them out. "Shepard? . . . read me? I've got . . . closing in . . . position."

Contact broken. Now she was on her own. Or was she? There was still a very real possibility that all of this was a fabrication, just for her. Something to sway her one way or another. Two doors stood ahead in the corridor: one to an office, the other to a stairwell and the shuttle bay. A good opportunity to see what other pieces of information they had dropped in her path.

The office door opened to two partially active mechs, crawling across the floor. Deactivation was done in the normal manner. For Shepard, of course, the normal manner was a bullet to the control servos. A quick glance around the office showed a couple of research terminals. She played one of the archived logs while checking the drawers for anything useful.

"Progress is slow, but subject shows signs of recovery. Major organs are again functional, and there are signs of rudimentary neurological activity." The image of the face she had seen in a hazy wave of pain and shock some time previous floated above the terminal, giving her report. "In an effort to accelerate the process, we've moved from simple organic reconstruction of the subject to bio-synthetic fusion. Initial results show promise."

Bio-synthetic fusion? Was that even possible. She's a cyborg? Part robot? . . . Which part, she wondered. Perhaps it was the part that would fail at the most critical point of a mission? Was it the thinking part or the active part? If the thinking part then none of these thoughts may even be hers. For that matter, she may not even be in this environment in the first place. Her disembodied brain may be floating in a jar somewhere while a computer played theater in her thoughts. If the acting part . . . she may have control wrested from her at any moment. It could be that either her life was an illusion, or her freedom . . . or both.

She continued to wonder as she played another log in the office. "Log update:" the voice was the medical tech that had been there when she first awakened, "the cost of this project is astronomical - - over 4 billion credits so far. But nobody seems to care that we've gone over budget." She tapped the wires of the controls for the wall safe as he continued, "I don't know where the boss gets all his money . . . maybe it's better not to know. I just wish he'd kick a little more in my direction once in a while."

That seemed more of a real world notion. Four billion credits. The Alliance could replace the whole fleet with that kind of money. Why would anybody spend that much money for anything? Anything! It seemed like a very unrealistic number. But at the same time, it brought a sense of reality back with it. People didn't just spend that kind of money. It would be absurd to use a snippet like that to try and lead someone astray, simply due to its un-believability. With that thought tucked away, she turned out of the office and toward the other door.

At the top of the stairs, behind another security glass, another man, calls for help. "Shepard!" But a heavy mech moves into view behind him. "No! Help! Help me!" Unarmed. Unarmored. And the mech is powering up a missile. All safety and security protocols have been disabled. Only an idiot would unleash all safety measures from armed and armored mechs.

Whether real or dream, she was making real actions in a real environment from her perspective. Time to fall back on a notion that kept her going after Saren when others would have balked: There are things beyond your control. When those things rear their ugly heads, all you can do is act with the integrity you were born with. There are no two ways around it. Humans are doomed to make choices. Best to make the right choice whenever possible. And the right choice comes to you quick and easily once you have a clear sense of who you are and what you're doing.

Beyond the next door, gunfire. A lone man stands on her side of a station systems chasm, a common design flaw in any space station, across from a small cadre of engaged mechs, firing like it's target practice. "Shepard! What the hell . . . "

She takes a few poorly aimed shots at the mechs as she approaches the half-wall to take cover with the soldier.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were still a work in progress."

"Hey, this ain't my party, pal," she ejects the thermal clip and snaps another in its place, "I'm just crashing it."

The young man cracks the smallest of grins, "Sorry, I forgot this is all new to you right now. I'm Jacob Taylor. I've been stationed here for-" Gunfire ricocheted off the railing near his head making him flinch. "Damn it!" He returned fire, dead on headshot to the mech. She grimaced in envy of the skills she once had to rival that shot.

"Things must be worse than I thought if Miranda's got you running around. I'll fill you in, but we better get you to the shuttle first."

Together, the two soldiers made short work of the mechs holding them down from across the span. During the fight, it became apparent that Jacob was a biotic with the familiar Pull technique that Liara used so well in her prior journeys.

If this fellow was a plant, it was a stroke of genius. A soldier to the very core, this man, Jacob, was an ideal ally at the moment. He seemed to exude integrity from every feature. Melding in combat with Jacob Taylor was effortless and reminded her of better days when her shots did not go astray and her duty was well defined. Of course, she would have to monitor his behavior for any flaw in the performance. She still had no idea of who she was dealing with. But an N7 is not born, they are made. And part of what makes a field operative of the N7 caliber is the readiness for the threat to come from the direction of the enemy and from that of the ally as well. She would be ready when she needed to be. This was coming back to her easier now.

"Check. Check. Anybody on this frequency?" "Anybody still alive out there? Hello?"

"Wilson?' He pulled up his comm link, "This is Jacob. I'm here with Commander Shepard. Just took out a wave of mechs over in D Wing."

"Shepard's alive? How the hell . . .never mind. You need to get out of there. Get to the service tunnels and head for the network control room."

"Roger that, Wilson. Stay on this frequency."

They raced through corridors until they got to the control room. A medical tech lay on the floor, huddled against the wall.

"Bastards got me in the leg."

"There should be some medi-gel in the first aid station on the wall," Jacob gestured.

In the time it took to get to the first aid station and back, apply the medi-gel and work it into the wound, it all became apparent. The next conversation only served to solidify it in her mind.

"I thought maybe I could shut down the security mechs. But whoever did this fried the whole system. Completely irreversible." Which, of course, discourages anyone from having a look of their own.

"We didn't ask what you were doing," Jacob countered. But he needed to give us a thought of why he should be trusted, didn't he? "Why do you even have security mech clearance? You were in the bio wing." Medical technicians don't have mech clearance. They haven't got time for those things.

"Weren't you listening?" Wilson shot back, "I came here to try and fix this." As opposed to checking to make sure that your sole patient on this project was safe and well, like a normal doctor would do. If he had answered the question, it would have helped his case. "Besides," Wilson added, "I was shot! How do you explain that?"

Shepard would have explained it as a point-blank-range shot that wouldn't have seriously impeded movement to the point that he was found in . . .within crawling distance to a first aid station no less. And regarding how much time elapsed from the shot to the site, the mech would either have to had been in the room (which there was no sign of mech wreckage within) or just outside the door where Wilson would have had to crawl (yet there was no blood trail from the door to the spot he lay). In all , she would have registered it as a self-inflicted wound. Sure signs of dereliction of duty in the field.

But this wasn't the place to bring this to bear. Whether Wilson was working on his own or on orders from another had not yet been established. And it wasn't going to be found out by interrogating him here. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather get out of here for now and work it all out on the other side," She cocked her head at the pair, "If that's not too much trouble?"

"Right Shepard," Jacob agreed, "We need to find Miranda. We can't leave her behind."

"Forget about Miranda," Wilson discounted, "She was over in D wing. The mechs were all over that sector." As if he would know, she thought. "There's no way she survived." Yet Shepard was given the impression that Miranda had been manipulating the mechs movements by using the personnel on the station.

Jacob also seemed unconvinced, "A bunch of mechs won't drop Miranda. She's alive." But how much is she involved, Shepard thought.

"Then where is she?" Wilson wondered aloud, "Why haven't we heard from her?" He stepped forward, "There are only two possible explanations: she's either dead… or she's a traitor!"

The question rose into her mouth before she could stop it, "Then why did she warn me about the attack?"

"Okay," Wilson back peddled, "maybe she's not a traitor. But that doesn't change the facts." He pressed on like a man with a design in mind, "We're here, she's not. We need to save ourselves."

A practical approach, whether trying to survive or trying to pull the wool over someone's eyes.

Wilson turned toward the door, "The shuttle bay is only a few…" A wave of mechs started through the door.

Without need for orders, everyone took cover from the barrage of small arms fire coming from the robots. Wilson empowered a biotic Overload that destroyed not only the mechs, but an obstacle in their path to the exit. Shepard turned to look at Jacob, but he seemed to be unaware that Wilson's biotic ability was perfectly suited to protecting him from a machine, whether or not it was shooting him in the leg.

Was this a red herring? Was she being set up for the obvious dupe, only to be blind-sided by the trust-worthy soldier? It seemed too straight forward.

As Wilson started to move, Jacob held back. "OK we took 'em down. But this is getting tense. Shepard, if I tell you who we're working for, will you trust me?"

A request for trust. Way too straight forward. Either they were being serious and Jacob had no idea that Wilson had flipped on him, or they had seriously underestimated the field operational expertise of an Alliance Infiltrator. She chewed up this kind of political backstabbing before breakfast on the average Sunday.

"This really isn't the time, Jacob." Wilson interjected.

Jacob turned toward him, "We won't make it if she's expecting a shot in the back."

Okay – no homework. She is always expecting a shot in the back. So he's playing it straight.

"If you want to piss off the boss, it's your ass, Jacob." Wilson stepped back.

Jacob turned back to Shepard, "The Lazarus Project, the program that rebuilt you . . . it's funded and controlled by Cerberus."

That was unexpected. Cerberus? The murderous merc band, with their out-of-control Rachnai experiments? The uniform was also very different from what she had seen in the field. Otherwise she would have spotted them straight away.

"So let me get this straight," Shepard crossed her arms, "The organization that was out to kill me during my chase after Saren, the one with no moral integrity whatsoever, the band of mercs that murdered Admiral Kahoku? That Cerberus? And they went to all this trouble to bring me back from the dead?" She drove up an eyebrow, "What for? So I could shut down even more of your operations?"

Jacob shrugged, "Those answers are way above my pay grade. But basically," he fixed her gaze with his own, "things change."

He stepped forward, "The Alliance declared you dead. They gave up. Cerberus spent a fortune to bring you back." He paused, "Look, I'd be suspicious too. But right now, we have to work together. I thought you deserved to know what's what."

A fair proclamation. And pretty dumb in the face of a firefight. The only person who would stretch across a limb like that is either a fool (which did not seem to fit Jacob Taylor's obvious level of experience) or an honest man, acting well into the realms of deepest integrity.

"Once we're off the station, I'll take you to the illusive Man. He'll explain everything." He nodded, "I promise."

"Fair enough," she turned, "but explaining and gaining my cooperation are two very different things. You won't catch me working for Cerberus at any time in the future." She walked from the room. "I promise."

"It's not much farther to the shuttle bay." Wilson echoed from the back.

True to his word, the shuttle bay was only a few turns away. As they approached, she could almost smell the mechs powering up. Certainly not leg-shooting berserker-bots. Controlled, inactive, servants. They do have a power-down mode, so it's probable that no one else made it this far.

Jennifer instinctively raised her weapon to fire. Three shots pinged off the head but didn't make contact with anything important enough to explode. The mech rose, then . . . kept on rising. Jacob had separated it with its gravity with his biotics. But more were marching into the bay, armed and looking for trouble. "Excuse me . . ." Such polite protocols. She and Garrus used to make fun of them all the time.

They thought it was just too amusing, mechanations, running amok, asking politely before they try to make you die. "Oh, pardon me," Garrus would respond after blasting it into junk metal, "terribly sorry." "Please reconsider your actions," another would chime. "Okay," Garrus would return as he switched to the shotgun, "You've changed my mind."

"Aw, just blow 'em up," Wrex would add, "Stop wasting time."

"It's the same time I would be spending bored to tears," Jennifer would grin as she downed another. Tali never got it – she appreciated the humor to an extent, but she found something . . . personal about mechs going rogue. Liara never came close.

"Why do you speak to them?" she would rationalize behind cover while preparing her next biotic assault, "They are not thinking creatures, they are programmed."

"Well, so are we," Garrus would respond. "We made the damn things act polite in the first place."

"True." Liara would ponder thoughtfully as Shepard rose to fire with a smile on her face. Those were good times, she thought. But there was a grimace on her face now. Four more mechs were marching toward them, and Wilson seemed to have conveniently forgotten that he had a biotic attack that would smash them down one by one. Waiting for the tactical advantage. At the right moment, catch them in a crossfire with mechs in the front and a shot in the back.

Time to go back to the basics, she thought. It had been a while since she used the stealth function of her omnitool. She wasn't sure her spare would work properly as she hadn't been able to check it before rushing out of Med Bay.

She activated the cloaking field and disappeared from view. Not many have mastered the art of cloaking tech. Most people get clumsy and trip into things or make too much noise, nullifying the advantage completely. For most people, the stealth field was a waste of omnitool energy. But to the trained few who took to it like a duck to water, it became a powerful weapon.

She quickly moved up on the side of the mechs. Jacob's fine shot blew another away as she positioned herself half a yard away from the first of the mechs, lined up in a row from the side of their march.

Three shots, all to the heads. Three wrecks. Quick, efficient, and completely avoiding the issue of a known, armed enemy to her rear. No chance for Wilson to make a move. His face showed his surprise. Whether he was preparing to shoot Jacob in the back at that point didn't matter anymore. Threat neutralized.

She walked purposefully toward the bay doors and Wilson took the cue. He rushed forward to get the door. "C'mon, through here." Perhaps this was where he planned to make his last stand – open the door, open fire on them, and back toward the shuttle while they took cover. His biotics might even protect him from their shots . . . maybe. It would be risky for him to make such a bold move, but this would likely be his last chance to escape the station as the sole survivor. "We're almost at the…"

The door slid upward, revealing a beautiful woman in a form-fitting jumpsuit.

"Miranda," Wilson was stunned, "But you were…"

Without hesitation, she raised her gun and fired point-blank into the doctor's chest. Wilson crumpled on the spot. "Dead?" she finished with a bitter edge to her voice that betrayed her cunning.

Jacob moved forward, examining the corpse on the floor. "What the hell are you doing?"

Miranda looked at him with a serious expression, "My job. Wilson betrayed us all."

Shepard already had her sidearm drawn - she had been expecting gunfire anyway, so she was prepared to join. She looked at the face and remembered the last time she had seen her. Bending over her in a moment of distress. . . . trust.

"Your man, your call," She lowered her weapon, "What's our next step?"

"We get on the shuttle and go," Miranda spoke decisively, as though it were plainly obvious before the

question was even asked. "My boss wants to speak with you."

"The illusive one? He is a man then, you've confirmed that at least?"

She turned with a smirk, "Ah Jacob. I should have known your conscience would get the better of you."

Jacob stood his ground, "Lying to the commander isn't the way to get her to join our cause."

"Well," she turned back to Shepard, "since we're getting everything out in the open, is there anything else you want to ask before we go?"

"I could come up with a few questions," she said, holstering her pistol. "We might as well chat while we're searching for other survivors."

"We needn't bother looking for others," Miranda counseled, "This is the evac area. If they're not here now, they're not coming."

"Is that what you were doing when Wilson was busy setting mechs after you?" Shepard crossed her arms, "throwing the station personnel at them?"

"Saving your life in the process?" Miranda countered. "Wilson figured out that I was helping you and he sent an army of mechs to take me out. I got here as soon as I could," she examined the corpse on the floor, "Probably a little too soon if you ask Wilson."

Understanding arose. The mechs weren't Wilson's trap, they were Miranda's. Wilson was expecting them to be fully operative when they got to the shuttle bay. Miranda didn't destroy them to throw Wilson off that she had been here – rather, she powered them down and let him wonder what he had done wrong that left them shut down. Meanwhile, the delay was enough for Shepard to get into position to make easy work of them. She had to admit, it was very clever.

But still, she thought out load, "There may still be some who didn't get killed in your little game of chess. Are you really so ready to just throw all of them away?"

"Don't you get it," Miranda shook her head slightly, "The only one worth saving is you. Everyone else is expendable."

"She's right," Jacob stepped back into the conversation, "We all knew the risks when we signed up. Without you there's no point to any of this."

Apparently the "risks" included getting caught in a faction war between two ruthless killers and discarded because the subject of the project is worth four billion credits and climbing. She wondered if this was in the contract when they signed up. There seemed to be more behind the goings on at this facility than was shown on the surface.

But in truth, she had learned all she needed to know, about these two anyway. Jacob was a man of his word, through and through, and would act for the greater good without a moment's hesitation. And Miranda . . . well, she seemed like a conniving, backstabbing, espionage operative with no trace of remorse at committing an execution-style take-down and the casual sacrifice of her entire staff. But she trusted her anyway. Her thoughts were vague and flighty, but she remembered them just the same: "She's in this betting on my outcome, not my failure." "I've had enough of this place to last a lifetime," she responded.

"Or two in your case," she grinned, "Come on."

* * *

><p><span>Shuttle Faucett: Terminus Systems<span>

He spread the cards out again, just to confirm his hand. A pair of sevens with a Jack kicker – pathetic. He never could get a decent hand playing on a shuttle. He wasn't sure what it was, it just seemed to be rotten luck was always a passenger onboard shuttles. The volus merchant he used to work for, years ago, always said that it was a good sign for a voyage if all the bad luck went to the cards and none of it went to the engines. He had to agree with that. At least he could manage a bad poker hand.

"I call your 18," he pushed a stack of chips into the pot, "and raise you 12."

"Thirty, eh?" the pale fellow to his left scowled. He stared at his cards looking sour. "Too rich for me," he dropped his cards face down on the tool case they used as a poker table.

He tried to show no outside signs of his joy that his bluff had dropped another worthy adversary, instead he glanced out the port and discussed the weather, "Looks like we've almost reached the station," he turned back to the table, "this is probably going to be the last hand." His gaze moved to the other of the four in the cabin, a Life Support tech. "It's your call."

A skinny fellow was regarding him closely. He made an expression of triumph and slid a stack of chips in the pot, "I call! Whatcha got?"

Damn. He hated it when he did that. He flipped his cards over, showing his 7's.

The younger player smiled and turned his cards, "Pair of nines. Come to papa." He moved to slide the chips to his side of the case.

But the chips slid to the side of the player that folded instead. In fact, everything did.

Complaints of alarm rose from the cabin as the craft was already leveling off again. The loser, already agitated, slammed his fist on the intercom, "What the hell are you doing up there?"

The voice of the pilot buzzed back through the unit, "Sorry about that, we had some unplanned turbulence."

"Turbulence my ass," the angry tech bellowed back, "Where'd you learn how to fly? Elcor?"

His jibe was referring to the inconvenient habit of elcor pilots to pull strange maneuvers that shook the inhabitants of their vessels. They had adapted their style of speech to accommodate other species, but everyone knew, they had no body language of any kind, even behind the controls of a craft.

The man who folded before the loser's turn made a frantic gesture to cut him off at his raging point. 'Watch it, watch it," he hissed, "That's the cripple. You know how he gets."

"Aw he's just upset 'cause they're decommissioning his shuttle with this flight," said the second folder, "He'll be grounded again."

The holder of the 9's looked around at his cabin-mates in alarm, "Guys, the 'comm is still on. He can hear you!"

They stared at the intercom for a moment before it crackled to life again.

"[With dripping sarcasm]," the voice stated in a lowly monotone manner, "Please stand by for more turbulence." The shuttle started rocking violently, shifting its momentum and periodically spinning in half-circles, "Please accept our profound apologies for any inconvenience and observe the fasten-seat-belt signs, flashing on your front panels." Screams issued from the four passengers as their world was turned upside down. "[With false cheer] Thank you for flying Air- Cerberus."


	2. Chapter 2:  The Illusive Man

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series. **

Chapter 2: The Illusive Man

Miranda and Jacob sat across the cabin from Shepard as the stars streaked by outside the shuttle windows. Jennifer stared, dumbfounded at the red glow that reflected back into the dark compartment from her eyes. This was the new Shepard. Was it a little less human? Or was there something deeper, beyond physical form.

Seeing Miranda's face brought back a haunted experience of "not being alive anymore." There was a voice in her being. Not a voice, but an expression of thought that seemed to come across as a voice. But it was her voice. But, then again, it wasn't her voice. Her "mental voice" was constantly appraising the tactical situation, evaluating the terrain for any possible flaws, ambush points, anything that she (or an enemy) could exploit. But this voice was not that voice. It was . . .

"Before you meet with the Illusive man," Miranda spoke over the hum of the drives, "we need to ask you a few questions to evaluate your condition."

"Come on, Miranda," Jacob frowned, "more tests? Shepard took down those mechs without any trouble," he argued, "That has to be good enough."

"It's been two years since the attack," Miranda replied, "The Illusive Man needs to know that Shepard's personality and memories are intact. Ask the questions."

Jennifer suddenly shot a look of alarm at Miranda, "Did you say two years?" It seemed like only moments had passed, although she knew it had to be weeks at the very least. But to find out the length of time was measured in years took her aback. "I've been gone that long?" No wonder her physical coordination was shot. She had been laying on a slab for two years while her skills atrophied.

"Two years, twelve days," Jacob corrected, "and you were on an operating table for most of it."

. . . She was dead. There was no doubt now. She had experienced something that few people even thought was possible. Her perception of the passage of time was inconsequential. It didn't really matter to her that she had been totally detached from being alive for that time. What made an irrefutable impact on her mind was that she wasn't just "legally dead" on an operating table. She was dead; the permanent sort. She hadn't been revived. She had been . . . resurrected.

What she experienced on the other side was no small matter either. She had stopped existing, but continued anyway. There was something frightening there. Something beyond what she could fathom at the moment. But it was just as well, since Miranda's decisive voice cut her deep thoughts out of her mind . . .

"We should have done weeks of testing to confirm the success of Project Lazarus," Miranda spoke with clinical accuracy of the ordeal. To her, this was the continuation of her project. And Jennifer was the subject. Her every move was being appraised, as though any wrong move would prompt Miranda to scrap the "project" and start over. Then again, Jennifer found herself just as anxious to see if this miracle of technology actually did work. The dim glow of her eyes as she watched the reflection in the see-through surface of the shuttle door window was a stark reminder that not all of her had "survived" and her personal disappointments with her ability to perform the normal motions she was so familiar with had concerned her. Perhaps what was in order now was a thorough examination of every aspect of her revived state to determine what was lacking and what was sound. But under the circumstances, "A few questions during the shuttle ride will have to suffice," Miranda finished.

Jennifer rarely reminisced. There simply wasn't much time for it. The now was too pressing a matter to revert to what had once been. . . . once. That word again. The formless existence that wasn't, where she was, not too terribly long ago (if there was an "ago"). Time was all messed up. She remembered the things she had done in her past as though she has the stats written up in front of her. She could recite the specifics without pausing to wrack her brain for the slightest detail. It was all there. . . . she had just seen it; just relived it before her death. But that feeling was starting to fade now, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

"Okay," Jacob started, "Records show you grew up on Earth. Tough environment, no parents." He scanned down the readout, "You enlisted and won a medal fighting Batarians during the Skyllian Blitz." He looked up, "Do you remember that?"

"A lot of lives depended on me holding that position. I still keep in touch with most- I used to keep in touch with most of the civilians."

Time was all mixed up in her head. She had experienced the passing of her life as a single episode, as though all events took place in the same place and time – the sum total of her life. From her first skinned knee to the last shot Saren put into her bicep. From the place she called home to the home she called space. From the entire period of her first tour of duty across the galaxy to the summer afternoon she spent closely examining a ladybug in the garden. It was all there as one very long, very wide-spread moment. And she seemed oddly detached from it. It was still part of who she was. It's just that . . .

"Virmire, where you destroyed Saren's cloning facility," Miranda was setting the stage, "You had to leave one or your squad behind to die in the blast."

Jacob turned to her again, "Lieutenant Kaiden Alenko was killed in action. It was your call. Why did you leave him behind?"

Kaiden . . . She paused a long while before answering. "I didn't." They gazed at her for a moment, then exchanged looks. "I made the call. I gave the order. He gave his life for the rest of the team." Her face was impassive. This wasn't a bitter memory, just a sad one. "But I didn't leave him behind." Her tone was calm and even. There was remorse at the loss, but no emotional suffering attached to it. There never was. "Kaiden's unique blend of abilities were what I needed in the place I needed them most. And I was the commander of the strike force that needed my skills and abilities." She finally glanced out the window, "My team knew the risks when they signed up. They each volunteered to take the bullet for the rest of the team. But only one was to die that day."

She looked back at them and repositioned herself in the seat. "That was the way it had to be, because that was the only way that it would happen." She stared darkly at both of them now, "But thank you for reminding me of what the Reapers still owe me."

"We understand commander," Jacob finally said, "And I wasn't judging your decision. Everybody at Cerberus knows that cloning facility had to be destroyed."

They didn't understand. They were taking this as a bitter resentment of losing a friend. They perceived her to be emotionally torn about sending a member of her team to certain doom. But they didn't understand Jennifer Shepard enough to realize one of the secrets of her style of command. She doesn't send men to their deaths, she empowers heroes to do what they do best. Losing life to fate at the threshold of victory is the highest honor she could hope for herself, she would not dare deny it to others.

For a time, the other questions seemed intrinsically unimportant. Her mind had fixated on a point in time where her hand was hitting the safety to the escape pod containing her friend, Joker. That was her last conscious act. She had done what she could. Maybe a little more than she could. She had saved her friends, at least. . . . victory.

"Your memory seems solid. There are other test we really should run—" Miranda seemed disappointed that she could not explore the depths of the results of her project. But it was apparent that time had shifted into a more critical aspect as they approached the alternate Cerberus base.

"Come on Miranda," Jacob intoned with an air of weariness, "Enough with the quizzes." He clearly didn't want to be bothered by the scientific lab work that Miranda seemed to enjoy so deeply, "The memories are there, and I can vouch for Shepard's combat skills personally."

'Really?' Jennifer thought. She decided that his standards were lower than her own if he thought her as combat capable as she had once been. Then again, he had never seen Shepard in action as she once used to be. . . . once . . .

"I suppose you're right," Miranda conceded, "We'll just have to hope that the Illusive Man accepts our little field test as evidence enough." It was clear that what Miranda really wanted was to sit behind the control panel of something in front of a window on the other side of which Shepard would be getting pushed to the edge of every envelope just to see how far those limits of hers would stretch. Strangely, Jennifer kind of liked that idea. She felt herself to be extremely ill-conditioned. She had never let herself get this badly out of shape. Even after the Skyllian Blitz, she was on her feet far sooner than most, to the chagrin and agitation of her doctors. They often accused her of courting death. . . . there it was again. Right back to the thing that she had been thinking in every spare moment that was not filled with strategic evaluation. That thing she had never really been afraid of – death. And now . . . Now . . .

The shuttle decelerated into the flight space of an orbital station.

They disembarked into the shuttle bay lobby, where Miranda tapped a control panel a few times. A nod and she raised her head.

"The Illusive Man is waiting for you in the other room," she said.

Shepard walked forward, noting the slight list to the right with every other step. That hip wasn't just making complaints to her nervous system. Now that she was out of a combat intensive situation, she could more closely examine her off-kilter gait. She needed to favor the leg. Something was wrong with the joint, it had not healed properly. Or it was out of place somehow. Whatever it was, the situation caused her to move with a slight limp.

Now she was in a dim, closed chamber. A holographic imager started scanning her form as she stood there. She watched it creep up her legs in a technical grid design while patterns of energy played across the surface tension of her bio-electro-magnetic signature. The room darkened a bit more and the holographic image of a man lounging in a personalized seat, smoking a cigarette, loomed into view. "Commander Shepard."

"Illusive Man," she droned back, "I thought we'd be meeting face to face."

"A necessary precaution," He dismissed casually, "Not unusual for people who know what you and I know."

The exclusivity gambit. Make the conversation turn to a place where you are both on the same side. Very politically savvy.

"Is this the part where we agree that we're partners or buddies or something, Illusive Man?" she put one hand on her hip, "That seems so formal since we're friends and all. Do you mind if I call you Lu?"

"You need to put your personal feelings aside." Obviously, he sensed that she was not impressed by his initial move. Since his first pawn had been taken, he decided to appeal to the authoritative approach. She's a soldier after all – soldiers follow orders. "Humanity is up against the greatest threat of our brief existence."

These last words struck a chord. Fury and suppression both ran full tilt into each other and for a split-second she was taken aback. Brief existence. She had received an extension to that existence – an unpleasant extension. But at the same time, it was in regards to a point of interest that, she couldn't deny, had followed her into the afterlife. A matter of importance to the existence of all things. "The Reapers."

"Good to see your memories are still intact," he moved to tip the ashes of his vice, "How are you feeling?"

She answered with a pointed silence. He had won the first round, that was certain. His apparent false-interest in her state of being was a slight jab in the game of power-play they were engaged in. But his question intruded upon something that she absolutely would not allow him to touch.

"That's a good question considering I shouldn't be feeling at all right now – considering your defiance of the laws of nature and whatever gods rule the heavens, I suppose I should be asking you the same thing, so . . . how do you feel?"

He stared back with a small silence of his own. He was very good at playing this game. But the odds were higher than the usual issues that people dealt with during this kind of encounter and they both knew it. "Cerberus isn't as evil as you believe," he had cut through a considerable amount of useless small talk in one quick statement. He had pulled the rug out from under her accusations and again placed them both on neutral ground around a great chasm that she was not ready to dismiss just yet. But to punctuate the point, he proclaimed, "You and I are on the same side; we just use different methods."

"Oh," Jennifer replied, the sarcasm thinker than a krogan skull-plate, "I'm sure if you take away the extortion, murder, terrorism, and unconscionable acts of dark science, you guys are just the life of the party." The Illusive Man did not react to any of these claims, but remained calm and composed. "Let's cut to the chase," she joined him in his dismissal of the petty matters that lay between them, "What are the Reapers doing that made you decide to bring me back?"

"We're at war," he rose from his seat, "No one wants to admit it, but humanity is under attack." Now they were on equal footing. The petty matters between them were laid aside and the issue was coming forth. "While you've been sleeping, entire colonies have been disappearing," he clarified, "Human colonies." Even though the holographic image took away the normal visual characteristics, the oddly mechanical eyes peered at her across a vast expanse of space. "We believe it's someone working for the Reapers. Just as Saren and the geth aided Sovereign." He cocked his head to the side, "You've seen it yourself. You've bested them all." There was an intense sincerity in his voice, "That's just one reason we chose you." Despite whatever else may have been playing out in the background, it was clear that the matter of entire human colonies being taken by alien interest disturbed this illusive man. She could tell, he had set the game aside - a mark of honor toward her. He wasn't going to insult her by trying to play the averages or get a little more "give" from her side. This was a sincere plea for help.

But Jennifer had some sincere thoughts to offer as well, "Well, unfortunately for you, the reputation of your organization precedes you." She unfolded her arms, "The name, Cerberus, is synonymous with the most heinous acts on the scoreboard." She put her hands on her hips, "Even the Batarians have a hard time keeping up." The Illusive man continued to stare from his odd flickering likeness. "Your honeyed words pale in comparison to your actions. You can really stand there amidst the smoking bodies of the millions you've tread on to get where you are and petition for my buy-in? What makes you think I even believe your story?"

The man stared impassively for a moment, "I'd be disappointed if I could persuade you that easily," he confessed, "Go see for yourself." He turned and walked back to his luxurious lounge chair, "I have a shuttle ready to take you to Freedom's Progress, the latest colony to be abducted." He started to sit, "Miranda and Jacob will brief you."

Shepard crossed her arms again, "And if I don't? What if I should just decide that you're not worth the effort and walk? Do I get a free ride off of your little paradise up here? I guess it's pretty easy to give orders when you hold all the cards, huh?"

"You always have a choice, Shepard. If you don't find the evidence we're both looking for, we can part ways." She couldn't help but smirk. They had sunk several large fortunes into her rejuvenation, no one is willing to let an investment that big walk away. But the fact of the matter was, you can't track a stealth unit, and you can't track a cloaked operative under a stealth field. And she knew that he knew that. The technology just can't operate both ways. She had the means to leave at any time now that she had access to the station. (And even if she didn't have access there were those who did, and they could be worked with.) So she was under no restrictions, she could walk out right now. "But first go to Freedom's Progress." The Illusive Man broke into her train of thought, "Find any clues you can," he gestured with his cigarette, "Who's abducting the colonies? Do they have any connection to the Reapers?" He remained as calm and rational as when she first entered the chamber. "I brought you back. It's up to you to do the rest."

He reached over and tapped a control and the conversation was over.

Executive Suite: Trade Floor – Illium

Blue lips parted to emit a sultry voice, a voice that seemed cushioned with gentle tones and inflections. But the message was in stark contrast to the voice. "The information you desired was harder to obtain than our estimates originally placed, based on your initial bid and instructions."

The vid-screen showed a human with a distressed look on his face. His hands flailing about to add emphasis to his emotional state, "But that's over three times what you originally quoted!" His look was incredulous, "I can't afford cred's like that?"

"Then, perhaps," the female voice continued, "we may find someone who can." His position was now very weak. He clearly wanted the information and had put money up in advance for it when he asked an information broker to dig it up.

"Now just a minute," the other party wailed. His finger was poised to make a comment of rejection.

"If you had made it known at the outset of our bargain that the data disk was under triple security and guarded by krogan mercenaries then perhaps our dealings could have been more," she tilted her head slightly, "amenable." She turned slightly from the view screen, "but now the situation has become more severe," she looked back to the screen. A blink from the console caught her eye, the pattern was familiar – she knew it to be an incoming call regarding her special project. "You stated in your interview that the information was of a personal nature." She continued briskly, but gently, "And now we find that there are legal matters involved, and possibly political angles to your goals as well. I'm afraid our overhead has increased dramatically because off your omission."

"But . . . "

"The terms are no longer negotiable," she cut him off again, this time with more urgency, "Because of your dubious intentions, our professional relationship has been compromised. Please let us know if you intend to continue with your pursuit with full payment."

A cobalt-blue finger moved over the control, disconnecting the call. Another move and the audio-feed from the new call sparked into life.

"Yes?" she asked simply, "You have something to report?"

An ethereal voice flowed through the comm. unit, "This one is distressed to announce a recent disturbance at the facility you have asked to refer to as "Station S."

The asari's eyebrows furrowed, "What kind of disturbance?"

"This one's contacts have reported that monitoring of life readings for routine crew at Station S have been listed as deceased within the hour."

"All at once?" she asked, clearly alarmed, "What about Project Lazarus? What is the status?"

"This one has never been able to connect monitoring to the subject of Project Lazarus," the ethereal voice altered slightly in inflection, "This one apologizes," then he continued, "But failing life signs have been recorded at a steady rate over several hours across Station S. The current status of Project Lazarus remains "pending." It is still several months behind schedule according to the monetary traffic this one has been tracking."

She paused at the knowledge, thinking what to do next. Finally, she concluded that there was nothing she could do. Nothing except to wait . . . and hope.

"Maintain surveillance," she ordered, "Report if there is any change in the fate of Station S, and especially that of the subject of Project Lazarus." She added as an afterthought, "There is a bonus available in ascertaining any knowledge of this subject." "That one has done well, thank you."

The blue hand ended the call using the same controls.

Unconscious steps were taken that lead her to her chair where she sat, her heels outward – a sure sign of worry. It had always been an outside chance. That Cerberus could complete Project Lazarus successfully. That they could rebuild that mind – that mind! The wonderful layering of thought within her brain. So complex, yet so simple. To have gotten this far, only to lose her . . . again . . .

No! She couldn't bear it. She had to put that thought away. Her course was set, after all, and she could do nothing to alter it now. Two years it had taken her to orchestrate all of this. But if it was all for nothing . . . Well, if it was all for nothing, she would exact a greater revenge than she had initially intended to. She would peel the flesh back like the strata at a dig site. She would transfer some of her own pain to those who had done this.

But her bitterness had already started to evaporate – the whole point was to bring her back. That taboo of humankind: resurrection. That's what she did all of this for.

Moments slipped by, unannounced to her troubled mind. They swayed back and forth over conflicting emotions.

Maybe it was better this way, she thought. She always wondered how she could bear seeing her again. Maybe now she wouldn't have to. She could move forward with her life.

There was just this one last thing, one final act that would seal off this chapter of her life.


	3. Chapter 3: Freedom's Progress

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series.**

**Thanks to fujingodofwind for inspiring me to make improvements.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 3: Freedom's Progress<span>

"The Illusive Man is very impressed with you," Miranda did not look up as Shepard approached, "I'm eager to see if you can live up to his expectations on this mission."

Jennifer watched her as she manipulated the console. The face. It was cold, calculating, perhaps even ruthless. But there was something about the way she had looked down at her when they first "met."

"Miranda," she began, "I want to thank you for everything you and the Lazarus Project have done for me. You have obviously put a great deal of care and effort on bringing me back and, well," Miranda remained fixed at her terminal, "I wanted to let you know that it means a lot to me."

"I just hope it was worth it," she rose and turned to face Shepard finally, "A lot of people lost their lives on that station."

Jennifer blinked. She rarely showed gratitude of this kind. Usually it was she who was helping another and receiving thanks for it. It was awkward for her to be on the giving end. And this cold reception was not conducive to working together on the eminent mission. She frequently had to put up a shield of cynicism to protect herself from the nature of social pressures against the commanding of forces. Some things had to be done. If there was room for kind natured diplomacy, they wouldn't be calling her in. But now she found herself putting it up at a time when she wanted to be humble in the light of the commitment Miranda and Cerberus had bestowed on her behalf. "What happened to 'everyone else is expendable?' And me being the 'only one worth saving?'" She felt nervous, she was fishing for a feeling of camaraderie, but she was being shut out instead. "I thought the whole point of this was that my abilities were needed."

"I have the utmost respect for your abilities, Shepard," she said casually, "It's your motivations that concern me. I believe in what Cerberus stands for," she continued, "Only time will tell if you prove to be an asset or a liability to our cause."

Shepard gazed at her for a moment. She had placed her trust in this woman and now it was ingrained. She couldn't mistrust her now if she'd tried. But that didn't mean she had to like her. "Fair enough," she said at last and turned to move on without another glance. If she truly was a liability to Cerberus (which she was thinking more and more was probably going to be her guiding philosophy from that point onward) then she will also trust that Miranda will pull out a pistol and try to gun her down where she stands. She can handle that kind of honest sincerity.

In the meantime, she would focus on their mission. On her mission. As long as Miranda was on her side against the Reapers, she could be any way she damned-well pleased. If not, well…only time would tell if she would be an asset or a liability to her cause.

Her path to the shuttle brought her closer to Jacob, "Ready to go?"

He turned, "I'm glad the Illusive Man convinced you to join us, Commander."

She stopped and frowned the slightest bit at him, "I didn't join Cerberus," she said, a bit surprised, "I'm going to a human colony to try and help those people. I'd sooner join the Saren Appreciation Association than Cerberus," She checked her omnitool. "Despite their actions and all the 'good' times, they have given me no reason to trust them."

"Noted," he said flatly, "Do you trust me, Commander?"

She looked up, considering him for a moment. "Yes," she said simply. "But this doesn't seem like your kind of crowd Taylor?"

"Maybe," he reflected, "But I thought the same when I was with the Alliance." He looked away bitterly, "That's why I'm here now."

She could see something deeper behind this soldiers' dutiful stance. But that was meant for another time – perhaps not even in her company. He had something he needed to work out. Most people do.

"Well," she checked her sidearm and headed toward the shuttle, "While we're out here, keep an eye open. Maybe you'll find somewhere that you do belong."

She walked on, not bothering to see what his expression may be. She didn't like this kind of socializing. People who didn't know her never "get" her. Comments like that tend to agitate people, but they aren't taken in the context she ever meant them. He would come to know her eventually, if they continued to work together. That would have to be enough for now.

They embarked and headed off toward Freedom's Progress. Miranda regarded her as she sat in the seat facing her, "We should be there shortly, Shepard. The Illusive Man put us under your command." Her words had no tone of emotion to them at all, "Do you have any orders?"

"Stay tight, keep your eyes opened, and be ready for any activity," she said, "Quick, deliberate movements from one secure point to the next. Careful around corners, doorways, places where an attack from above could strike. No weapons fire unless an enemy is confirmed. And keep an eye out for signs of survivors."

"That's highly unlikely Commander," Miranda noted, "No one was left at the other facilities."

"Be nice to find somebody." Jacob said hopefully.

The differences between her two new Cerberus companions were stark. Miranda was as cold as that slab she had been laying on for two years. But Jacob's hopeful approach was refreshing in comparison. She would study them both closely during this ordeal the way she had hundreds of times before with every member of every squad she ever led into hostile territory.

They touched down at a far end of the settlement, just inside the perimeter. They moved quickly and decisively into the first building. The lights lit up showing a humble living unit.

"Looks like everyone just got up and left right in the middle of dinner," Jacob commented.

They moved through the habitat and out the other side. The compound was deserted. It stretched out before them, empty and unused.

"Strange," Miranda wondered aloud, "No bodies. No structural damage. No signs of battle."

They moved through a barrier shutter and heard servos springing to life. An odd mechanical whine echoed in the distance some ways beyond. "Hear that?" Jacob tilted his head, "Sounds like FENRIS mechs."

Bot heads rose from across the span to another balcony, followed by automatic weapons. "Take cover," Shepard ordered calmly.

They scattered to take shelter behind nearby equipment crates. "Strange," Miranda said again, "Security systems were disabled at the other colonies."

"Well," Shepard commented as she clicked off the safety on her firearm, "maybe they just forgot all those other times." She caught them both glance at her oddly from behind their respective covers as shots started to glide by. "At least it's not going to be a boring tour."

She aimed over the crate, feeling the weight of the weapon and gauging the distance. Twenty or so meters. Three shots, two hit the shoulder and chest, the other missed. She spun out from behind the crate as the others opened fire on the mechs: Jacob with assault rifle and Miranda with a biotic blast of energy that fried one of the mechs outright. Shepard slid up behind the rail barriers just at the edge of the overlook between the balconies.

Wilson must have been totally inept at combat, she thought. This was not really an enlightening revelation considering the manner in which he botched his own escape. But also in the light that he was a medical tech – not the type of person that takes tactical values seriously. Miranda just used the same thing he had used against the mechs in the station, only hers was more powerful. Had he any strategic sense at all, he would have known that mechs would have been useless against her biotics. Perhaps he thought numbers would have made the difference. She shook her head slightly and echoed a thought from her past, 'business professionals should never try to work out combat tactics for themselves – it's just embarrassing.'

She swiveled her weapon over the top of the barricade to see one of the mechs, now 16 meters away teetering from one of Jacob's shots. She aimed for the faceplate and hit true.

At last, she thought, progress. She briefly thought about re-christening the settlement "Firefight's Progress," but instead turned to the right where the FENRIS mechs were charging down the steps of the next structure toward them. She energized her omnitool and threw a charge of incendiary energy at it before dropping behind the barrier to reload.

Miranda finished off the scorched mech while maneuvering to a better position against the new threat. And Jacob used his biotic pull to send another mech into the air. Regular mechs were also coming towards them from the right. Each shot gave her more hope that her aim was improving. There seemed to be a flutter from the bicep of her main weapon hand that was giving her grief. But she was learning the extent of its effects on her skills and was beginning to compensate for it. The other mechs went down in regular time for a standard combat unit. This was encouraging, but didn't make her feel as well as she could have.

"Those mech shouldn't have been hostile." Jacob sounded worried, "They should have recognized us as human."

Miranda mirrored Jacob's caution, "Someone reprogrammed them to attack on sight. We're not alone here."

Shepard popped in another clip and surveyed the surroundings, "And here you thought it was going to be empty." She glanced at them, "See what happens when you're always negative about everything?"

It looked like Jacob wanted to say something but Jennifer cut him off with a gesture to move forward. As they approached the next prefab building she updated her orders.

"It's possible that whoever turned on the defenses may have had a reason to override the security settings." And to Miranda's point she added, "And they may no longer be about. Their attempt may have not worked the way they wanted." They entered the building and immediately spotted the door they needed to move through. "So check your fire, we need to make sure that our targets are hostile before we engage."

Jacob protested, "By then it may be too late."

"Try to be the bigger man here, Taylor," she chided, "Just because they're shooting at you doesn't mean they're all bad."

Through the next door, another balcony opened up and two mechs turned away from the door they were watching, a regular mech and a FENRIS unit. A weapon was raised. The mech lifted into the air, borne aloft by Jacob's biotic power. The FENRIS made for a charge and was stopped dead by Miranda's Overload. Neither was lethal to an organic being on its own. They understood.

Shepard and Jacob shot the floating mech to pieces as it dangled in the air, unable to draw proper aim on any of them. She grinned. This was the proper execution of her orders. Interpretive and aligned.

They approached the door that seemed to be of interest to the mechs and powered it up. The door rose.

A group of quarians crouched on the floor of the habitat, reviewing a plan. They obviously were not expecting the door to slide open revealing three armed humans. They whirled around, drawing weapons defensively, "Stop right there!"

"P_r_azza!" A young female quarian pressed forward, "You said you'd let me handle this!" The voice threw a shiver down Shepard's spine.

The quarian turned a familiar face-plate toward the trio of humans and visibly started. "Wait . . . Shepard?" It was Tali'Zorah

Prazza raised his weapon again showing his immaturity, "I'm not taking any chances with Ce_r_be_r_us ope_r_atives!" Shepard held up a hand to let her team know not to engage.

Tali turned back to hold up a warning hand, "Put those weapons down!" Then turned to face them again.

"Shepard?" She seemed like she was lost in a dream, "Is that… You're alive?"

She seemed skeptical, either unable or unwilling to believe that it was really her, although it seemed that she wanted to. Tali was always such a practical girl. That's one of the things that made them such a good team-up whenever they went out on an assignment.

"Forty-six hundred and sixty-two meters, Tali," she said to her old friend as sort of a code. "And I had sniffles that day, too." She could almost see the eyes widen within the mists of her personal environment.

It had been a clear day on Ferros. They needed to cross the tramway which was covered in geth. What they had thought was pollen had been acting up bad for everyone that had a nose in the open air. It turned out to be spores from the Thorian, a plant-creature living under Zhu's Hope, the colony they were trying to return to. The smaller geth weren't so much a problem since they had the Mach III which would protect them from most small arms fire. But there were rocket troopers on the bridge, and they had already done some serious damage to the hull of the vehicle.

A solitary pair of fingers and a quarian thumb were working holo-controls, "My omnitool shows the big one to be fou_r_r thousand, six hund_r_r-red and sixty-two mete_r_r-rs away," Tali, trilling her "R's" had been taking range metrics while Shepard was looking at it through her sniper rifle from behind cover. "We might be able to line up a shot with the Mach III, but it would p_r_robably hit us with missiles at least a couple of times," she thought out loud. "Maybe it would be better-r to hold ou_r_r-r position he_r_r-re while I make some _r_r-repairs to the _r_r-rove_r_r-r. We a_r_r-re low on omnigel, but-"

A shot rang out from Shepard's weapon.

"Shepard! Don't!" Tali complained. "You will only give ou_r_r-r position-"

"Unbelieveable!" Garrus was shaking his turian head, his mandibular plates stretched to the side in amazement.

Jennifer pulled back from the scope grinning as Tali looked for herself and saw the big, red geth fall backward.

"You," Tali stared, "You couldn't have," She pointed at the barrel of her rifle, "You couldn't possibly have-"

"Through the eye," Shepard nodded, still grinning.

"Through the eye," Tali repeated in a whisper, standing before the new Shepard, over two years later in the midst of an abandoned fringe colony, light years away. It was not a fact that she had ever boasted about, and Garrus didn't particularly speak of it either, since he hadn't been able to hone his own skills to that level yet and didn't want to admit it. Only the three of them ever knew the details.

"You'll pa_r_don us for not taking you at you_r_ wo_r_d, Ce_r_be_r_us," the youth shifted in his stance, aiming his shotgun menacingly at the three of them in general.

Miranda crossed her arms, unimpressed, "We're well within our rights to investigate attacks on a human colony. I'd like to know what quarians are doing here." Her tone was not accusative, but they automatically put the other quarians in a posture of defiance.

Tali had turned back to her younger team-mate. "Weapons down, P_r_azza," she ordered, "This is definitely Commande_r_r Shepard."

Prazza reluctantly obeyed.

Tali turned back, not defensive at all in her demeanor, "One of ou_r_ people was he_r_e on pilg_r_image. His name was Veeto_r_. We came to find him."

Shepard frowned, "Why did Veetor chose a place like this for his pilgrimage?"

"Quarians can choose where they go on their pilg_r_image," Tali responded.

"But there doesn't seem to be much for a quarian to pilgrimage for in a place like this," Shepard reasoned, "This colony wouldn't develop anything the fleet could make use of." She remembered her conversations with Tali about quarian pilgrimages. The idea was to go out into the world and find something useful for the Migrant Fleet so they could show they could contribute to the whole of the society. A place like this didn't appear to have much to offer for the quarian people.

"Well," Tali said uncertainly, "Veeto_r_ never did well in c_r_owds, he always wanted to be someplace quiet." She shifted back to the moment, "He liked the idea of helping a small settlement. But we think he was injured. And he's always been a bit ne_r_rvous, so . . . "

"She means that he was unstable," Prazza piped up again, "Combine that with damage to his suit's CO2 sc_r_ubbe_r_s and an infection with open ai_r_ exposu_r_e and he's likely deli_r_ious."

Jennifer started to feel sorry for Tali. This fellow was a disaster to have on a mission. Obviously disregarding direct orders, promoting an atmosphere of hostility in unfamiliar territory, and now volunteering damaging information to what he obviously thought was an enemy. This was probably his first mission. Of course a routine rescue operation in a non-hostile area. He probably thought this was his opportunity to shine brightly by doing something dramatic. The worst nightmare for any commander in the field.

"When he saw us landing he hid in a wa_r_ehouse on the fa_r_r-r side of town," Tali continued, balancing the info leak with more useful information, "We suspect that he also p_r_og_r_ammed the mechs to attack anything that moved."

That made sense. So the humans, again, had no opportunity to defend themselves – but somebody did. And a quarian with technology is a wild card on the poker table.

"We'll provide controlled fire against the mechs as they advance. That will leave you and your team free to persuade Veetor that we're not hostile. It would be better for him not to see his own people leveling weapons at him," Shepard reasoned.

"Good idea," Tali responded immediately, "You'll need two team to get past the d_r_ones anyway." It was like time had spliced back together. Tali was one of her dearest friends. Jennifer felt a thrill that had not been present since she had awoken in the med lab. This was worth every minute of torment she had suffered. Now there was no grin on her face, only a deep resolve that she did not experience when in the midst of Cerberus operatives backstabbing everyone to get noticed in the eyes of their Illusive master.

Prazza spoke again, "Now we'_r_e working with Ce_r_be_r_us?" An insubordinate statement if ever she heard one. But she had to remind herself, the quarians weren't a military organization nearly as much as they were family. This sort of thing had to be tolerated as these were not only your squad members but also your cousins, nephews, and not too distant relatives. You couldn't be choosey about who you were working with – and you couldn't just dismiss them. They would suffer shame before their family and their ship, spreading to everyone. It seemed to her that Prazza's bold nature was probably a boon in negotiating with merchants and handling small disputes with those who did not have the interests of the quarian people in mind. "But if he were on my team," she caught herself thinking…

"No, P_r_azza. You'_r_e wo_r_king fo_r_ me," Tali said with an edge to her voice that Shepard was glad to hear, "If you can't follow o_r_de_r_s, go wait on the ship." Apparently, she was unwilling to allow him to bring disgrace to anyone but himself. Tali turned back to them again, "Head fo_r_ the wa_r_ehouse at the center of the colony. We'll circle a_r_ound the fa_r_ side and d_r_aw off some of the d_r_ones to clear you a path."

"I'd rather keep you out of the line of fire altogether," Shepard admitted, "But teamwork is what teamwork does, Tali Zorah." She raised her omnitool to broadcast their comm. Signal. "Stay in touch."

"Will do," said Tali evenly, processing the signal through her own omnitool. "Good luck Shepard. Whateve_r_ happens," she turned to leave, "It's good to have you back."

They watched the quarians lope out of the side door and made their own way through the back. As they approached the next cluster, whirring sounds passed somewhere overhead in the darkness.

The comm. Chanel lit up, issuing Tali's familiar voice, "Be ca_r_eful Shepard, the_r_e's a squad of secu_r_ity d_r_ones up ahead."

"Thanks for the warning," Jacob responded, "we'll take care of them."

As they entered the prefabricated space, a mech in the corner powered up and began to rise. Automatic weaponry came up in its arms, the safety clicked off and ready to start emitting its deadly payload.

Shepard scanned around the rest of the room while swinging her pistol in the direction of the mech and firing one shot at point-blank range into the side of its faceplate. The machine sputtered convulsively and dropped in a heap.

They moved through the next habitat and into another courtyard. A whirring sound issued from above, warning them of the approach of the aforementioned drones. They swiveled around them, landing on a nearby ledge for stability while taking aim at their targets. Shepard aimed and fired, unloading a full clip on one before it collapsed and exploded.

"Use Overload on them." Jacob suggested.

Miranda activated her bio-amp and unleashed a devastating charge at one of the machines just as it released a small missile. She dodged behind a barrier on the elevated walkway, rendering the blast useless against her, but the drone disintegrated in the energy halo around it.

Jennifer could have done a similar act with her omnitool's incendiary charge, but she wanted more practice. She felt horrified now after the memory of how sharp her skills had once been compared to the atrocious performance of late. These hovering missiliers were an excellent shooting range. She tried for one, putting a bullet down its launch bay on the second shot. Another had one leg of its tripod blown away, sending the shot it had meant for Jacob awry. The one that remained was at a bit of a distance. Another full clip was gone and she hadn't done more than scratch the paint. Jacob sent it skyward and Miranda finished it off with sub-machine gun fire.

"Shepard," Tali's familiar voice came through the comm. channel once more, "P_r_azza and his squad _r_rushed on ahead. I told them to wait but they wouldn't listen." She sounded quite upset at conveying the news. Tali never liked the thought that she couldn't make a positive contribution to whatever team she was on, much less have a negative one, "They want to find Veeto_r_ and take him away befo_r_e you get he_r_e."

"We should have expected this," Miranda chided.

Shepard had expected it. The brash young quarian, trying to make a spectacular display, just as she had estimated.

"Come on." Jacob responded, "We can still catch them." He seemed interested in beating his adversaries to their common goal.

But Shepard's concern was for the lives of the quarians. "Hurry," She urged. Her appraisal of the young quarian boaster was not complimentary. She was afraid he was leading the others to their death at the hands of security mechs.

More rocket drones whirred into place. There was no more time for target practice. This time she combined her tech and weapon skills to take them down. Another courtyard later and they were in front of the loading bay doors.

"Shepard," Tali called, "we'_r_e inside the loading docks. Veeto_r_ _r_ep_r_og_r_ammed a heavy mech," gunfire was sounding in the background, "It's tea_r_ing P_r_azza's squad apa_r_t."

She was too late. If she could have gotten there with enough time to engage the YMIR, it might have made a difference. But even if they had not encountered any resistance on the way, it seemed that Prazza's headstrong urge to shine brightly had attracted the wrong kind of attention. She would not be able to save him.

"They did want to get to Veetor first," Miranda stated matter-of-factly. They moved toward the large door, heavy gunfire already sounding through the metal itself.

"We're almost there," she called back to her old team-mate, "We'll try to draw its fire off of Prazza's team."

Tali was apparently monitoring their position on her equipment, "Get you_r_ squad unde_r_ cove_r_ and I'll open the loading bay doo_r_s."

"We'll take cover by the doors." Miranda agreed, "Shepard, you take point."

The two rushed to either side of the doors while Shepard dove behind the forward barrier. "We're in place!"

The doors rumbled open revealing the tragedy that was the end of Prazza's aspirations.

The quarians were backing away as the heavy YMIR mech advanced, firing non-stop. Tons of armored steel brought a heavy foot down on the walkway as it moved forward, causing a young female quarian to lose her footing and fall. She scrambled to her feet, but no time was left for her. The foot of the YMIR smashed down heavily on her lower back and legs. The scream was audible, but muffled – it must have blew out the speaker array. The mech raised its weapon and opened fire at point blank range, turning her into an unrecognizable pile of meat.

Prazza had taken cover behind some storage containers which became the target of the YMIR's missile attack, throwing the over-zealous quarian into the open. He recovered too slowly, once on his feet, he was face to face with the menacing hulk of armed robotics. Again the rapid-fire gun burst into life, taking Prazza's in the process.

The last of Prazza's squad was caught not knowing which way to turn. Horrified at his female counterpart's demise, shocked that Prazza's bold advance had ended so abruptly, he was busy offering support fire which was completely ineffective, he was an easy target for the heavy mech, now turning toward the next nearest opponent.

The three moved under cover as quickly as possible. "That mech's got heavy armor plating." Jacob assessed, "Those quarians never stood a chance."

Miranda checked the clip on her machine pistol, "This is going to be one tough son-of-a-bitch to take down."

"Overload!" Shepard called as she activated her stealth unit, "Jacob, concentrate fire on the central servos."

Miranda ejected a charge that sparked in a halo around the droid, revealing the shape of its energy shield. The mech turned to fire an explosive in her direction in answer to the blast. Assault rifle fire challenged its shielding further, as Miranda ducked behind cover to avoid the missile strike that blasted the majority of building materials into dust.

Now the thing targeted Jacob who took cover behind a barrier. Miranda's small arms were denting up its armor plating but weren't truly as effective as the assault rifle had been. Yet, she was striking at its form, meaning the shields were down. "Draw its fire, Shepard," Miranda shouted, "the only way we can defeat this thing it to keep it off guard."

But it continued its advance. Another couple of steps and it would have a clear shot at Jacob. If he didn't break cover, he would be ripped to shreds by automatic weapon fire. If he did break, he would have to try and dodge a missile.

The sound of a projectile leaving its launcher went undetected by the YMIR – it didn't even register the explosive that was bouncing under the foot it was trying to bring down on the platform. The grenade detonated just under the robots giant foot, violently throwing it to the left. It stumbled once, trying to steady itself with a foot that was bent oddly upward. It toppled onto its side.

Reacting to this new threat, its top half swiveled around, bringing weapons to bear. But Jacob's accurate shots to its mid-section had made turning a grinding affair that delayed its facing, and Shepard was now only a single meter away. Her well-placed explosive round had forced it to stumble toward her and fall in the proper manner that would give her a slight advantage of timing. The mech had to lift its head backward to see her, and now had to lift and twist its arms to properly position for a firing solution. In the meantime, Shepard unloaded her machine pistol into its mechanized headpiece, blasting it into junk.

She sprung the clip from the unit. "You just have to know how to talk to it."

She turned and headed for the bunker.

Veetor turned out to be a wealth of information. He had captured the whole event with his omnitool recording functions. Collectors, seeker swarms, helpless, immobile victims. It was clear, the human colonies that had been disappearing were being rounded up by these collectors. The possibilities of this being some kind of staged Cerberus prank were extremely remote now. The technology used, the creatures, the manner in which it took place – none of these appeared to be a small-time operation. The scale was too great, even for an organization that could throw money hand over fist at a dead woman just to see her dance on command. She couldn't deny, there was a real threat here and she had to act on it now that she knew of its existence. The Illusive Man had obviously known that about Commander Shepard – she couldn't just let something happen if it was within her power to change it.

The shuttle was coming to rest at the Cerberus facility upon their return.

"The Illusive Man is eager to speak with you about our findings, Commander," Miranda announced. "And we've got to get this data into the hands of our analysts."

The shuttle doors began to open, but before any of them could disembark, Shepard's voice rose clearly, "Taylor," they both looked up, "Take the intel to the labs."

Miranda held up her amp to show that she had already taken steps, "I've got it right here, Comm-"

"Miranda," she cut her off, "I need you to document the events of this expedition. Do it now while the details are still clear."

The Cerberus operative frowned slightly and transferred the data to Jacob as Shepard stepped off the shuttle.

As Jacob strode through the doors to the labs, Miranda curiously advanced, "I could have just as easily-"

"In the future," Jennifer cut her off again, "Never issue orders to me while under my command again. Is that clear?" Her tone was even and unemotional.

Miranda looked confused and shook her head slightly, "I never-"

"You ordered me to take point," Shepard corrected.

Operative Lawson looked even more confused, she frowned toward the floor for a moment then rose her head again, "I didn't mean-"

"And ordered me to fire on the mech as it was moving in on Taylor."

"I was just-"

"You are very adept at command, Miranda," Shepard continued in her even tone, "That's why it comes so naturally to you. You're a born leader."

Miranda blinked, but said nothing.

"But in the field, countering the chain of command can mean death for every member of the unit." She frowned at Miranda now, "You're a good enough leader to know that."

Miranda responded simply, almost as if she didn't know what else to do, "Yes Commander."

"If we have any opportunities to work together in the future I expect you to let me know straight away if you will become unable to follow my orders." She shook her head at the Cerberus operative, "Because if you can't, I can't use you on my team."

She left her there, making her way to the holo-chamber for another meeting with the Illusive Man.

She had to admit it, she was convinced. She was no fan of Cerberus. In fact, she had gone to great lengths to eradicate every sign of them wherever she found them. 'Hell,' she thought, 'If I wasn't dead when they picked me up, I probably would have shot the bunch of them.'

. . . How did they pick her up? She had fallen from orbit. Granted it was an ice planet, that may have been the reason she didn't burn to a crisp and explode into ashes on impact with the ground. But the fact that they managed to find her remains was extraordinary by itself. There were a number of very odd happenings coming together to make all this possible. She would have to consider it deeply at a later time. She was stepping into the holo-chamber and waiting for the strange hum of the graphing lasers.

"Shepard," the disembodied man spoke through synthesized sound units light years away, "Good work on Freedom's Progress." He puffed on his cigarette and continued, "The quarians forwarded their findings on Veetor's debriefing. No new data, but it's a surprising olive branch, given our history." His brow furrowed, "You and I have different methods, but I can't argue with your results."

Shepard folded her arms, "See? Olive branches are for making nice with people, not sharpening into points and stabbing people in the back. You may want to upgrade your methods of diplomacy, Lu."

"Diplomacy is great when it works," he pressed on without missing a beat, "but difficult when everyone already perceives you as a threat."

"Hmm," she brought a finger up to her cheek thoughtfully, "I wonder where they'd get the idea that you were a threat."

The Illusive Man ignored her cynicism, "But more importantly, you confirmed the Collectors are behind the abductions."

"Maybe it's because you attack civilized people using dirty tactics and leave behind smoking corpses in your wake of pillaging and conquest," Shepard clung to the last thought, dripping heavily in sarcasm.

"They periodically travel to the Terminus Systems," he plodded on conversationally, "looking to gather seemingly unimportant items or specimens. Usually in exchange for technology."

"That," Shepard was almost enjoying pulling the elastic on the prior conversation point back as far as it would go, "or the dozens of terrorist attacks where your people go out of their way to be perceived as a threat."

"When their transactions are complete," she was beginning to think he may be a recording, "they disappear as quickly as they arrived; back beyond the unmapped Omega 4 relay."

"One or the other."

"Until now, we've had no evidence of direct aggression by the Collectors."

He showed no visible sign that her commentary had irked him, but she felt she had gotten her point across.

"Nice lesson in social customs of abductor races," she dismissed his dissertation on the Collectors, "You do have some kind of evidence that connects the Collectors to the Reapers, right? You're not just wasting my time with useless talk about how weird those guys are? You suspected they were involved even before you sent me to Freedom's Progress. You knew what I would find."

He responded naturally, "The patterns are there, buried in the data. The abductions started shortly after you and the human fleet defeated Sovereign. The abductions are related," he asserted, "even if the Alliance and the Council refuse to believe it." He readjusted his position in his seat, "I won't wait until the Reapers are on the march. We need to take the fight to them."

"And by we…" Shepard spoke directly, "You mean me." The statement was simple. This is why he had brought her back. To do what she already pledged to do. "You realize that when I destroyed Sovereign, I shot at it with the assembled fleet of Citadel Space." She only paused a moment before continuing, "I think we might need slightly more than just me to handle the Collectors."

"I've already compiled a list of soldiers, scientists, and mercenaries," digital folders appeared in his control workspace, "You'll get dossiers on the best of them. Finding them and convincing them to work with you could be challenging, but you're a natural leader."

"I'll continue to track the Collectors," he promised, "When they make their next appearance, I'll notify you and your team. Be ready."

Her arms remained crossed, "You may have misunderstood," she said evenly, "An operation of the scope you're talking about will require more than just a few guys who shoot things. You said it yourself, this is a war. We need to mobilize the Alliance and contact the Council."

He shifted in his seat again, "If you think you can convince them, by all means." He looked up at her, a serious look on his face, "Just remember," he cautioned, "You've been gone a long time. Things have changed."

"Things always change," she unfolded her arms and steadied her hands on her hips, "But there are some things that never change." She shifted her stance for comfort, "I'll get it done."

He took a drag on his cigarette, regarding her, "Good," he said finally, "two things before you go: First, head to Omega and find Mordin Solus. He's a brilliant salarian scientist."

Jennifer raised an eyebrow. An odd choice for a first request.

As if to respond to her unspoken thought, he explained, "Our intelligence suggests he may know how to counteract the Collectors' paralyzing seeker swarms."

Acceptable, she thought. He obviously had this all lined up months in advance as part of this mind-boggling puzzle of procession of plots. "Maybe I can get my shots while we're at it," she mused, "I think I'm due for another set. Anything else?"

He paused, "I found a pilot I think you might like. I hear he's one of the best," and as an afterthought, "Someone you can trust." He moved a hand to the control grid and the image started to fade out.

She was hard pressed to see how he was going to pull this one off. He obviously went to a lot of trouble to see to it that the people in her immediate field of influence were the highest caliber of agent in Cerberus. Jacob Taylor was definitely not in any way like any Cerberus agent she had seen before her death. And Miranda was about as transparent as air – she made no bones about where her loyalties lie. And he wasn't lying about the threat they were up against. But, she thought to herself as the field went down, the only way he could find a half-way decent pilot she could trust is if they kicked over the Alliance and recruited Joker.

"Hey, Commander,". . .

* * *

><p><span>Executive Office: undisclosed location<span>

He put out his cigarette and touched the console. A new panel opened with communications data filtering into columns and organized patterns. One of the display pieces lit up and a human voice issued into the office.

"Yes sir?"

"Status update on comm. channel."

"Full integrity," the voice replied, "No loss of encryption, no detected attempts to break the stream."

He took out another cigarette and positioned it between his fingers. "Excellent."

He pulled a lighter from his side tray and lit the end of the cigarette, inhaling deeply to pull the flame into the rich tobacco encased therein. "Establish the quantum channel to EDI and ensure that it's functioning properly."

The voice on the other end seemed to pause, 'Yes, sir."

"And send that prepared statement to the Shadow Broker."

"Yes, sir," the voice intoned.

"I'll also need the latest surveillance reports from the terminus systems," he continued, "And send word that I'm ordering an expanded detection grid – I don't care what our operatives have to do, but I don't want a single thing happening in the area to occur without my hearing about it within 12 minutes."

"Yes sir," the voice questioned hesitantly, "Sir? You are aware that the E D I is not yet integrated into the comm. systems."

A puff of smoke wafted in front of the Illusive Man's face, "Then make it happen."


	4. Chapter 4: Joker's Wild

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series. Disclaimer: Explicit content (we use these words in a sentence).**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 4: Joker's Wild<span>

She couldn't believe her eyes. Not only was she looking at her former pilot, but he was walking upright without his braces! Well, not completely upright, he was stooped over and he had a limp – worse than hers.

"C'mon," he turned, a smile on his face, "Let me show you the new digs."

She didn't want to follow him up the ramp into the depths of the Cerberus base. She wanted to hug him and hold him until his ribs broke – which wouldn't be long. In fact, she thought she might cry, something she never would have allowed before a comrade in arms. Her last act had been to save Joker's life. If she hadn't thrown him into the escape pod and hit the eject, they'd both have died. And Joker's bones were so brittle that he may never have been able to be brought back like she was, even if Cerberus was so inclined.

But Joker was not the "huggable" type, even if he were to be just as glad to see her. She moved to keep pace with her old friend. "I have to be dreaming!" she called as she caught up, "Of all the people that could have come up behind me just now, I can't believe it's you."

"Look who's talking," Joker pressed onward, "I saw you get spaced."

"How in all the heavens did you get yourself here?"

Joker's tone became a little more serious, "It all fell apart without you, Commander," he half turned as he walked, "Everything you stirred up, the Council just wanted it gone." He turned forward again, still sour, "Team was broken up, records sealed, and I was grounded." The sourness turned bitter, "The Alliance took away the one thing that mattered to me. Hell yeah, I joined Cerberus."

"But you know what these people are like, hell we fought and killed swarms of them on our way to Saren," she implored, "Knowing what their capable of, how can you tell me you trust them."

The chipper tone came back to his voice as he stopped at a railing, "Well, I don't trust anyone that makes more than I do. But they aren't all bad," he looked out into a dark hangar, "Saved your life. Let me fly…" He crossed his arms proudly, "And there's this… They only told me last night."

Lights started coming on in the dark chamber beyond, rotor assemblies whirring into life as the hangar was waking up. Shining steel came into view, a turian design, but not their standard style. State of the art, precision engineering. It was a remake of the Frigate they had set out on a maiden voyage before this whole mess started up. But it was bigger, and obviously more refined. This was not made of shipyard metals and standard parts. This was custom designed to be the improved version of the Normandy.

It was all becoming so clear now. Multiple fortunes spent rejuvenating her to her former self, seemingly reliable allies within trusting distance, a former friend brought in specifically to take the place he took when things were familiar, and the ship – a vastly superior ship, and no doubt an extremely expensive ship, at her beck and call.

The Alliance and the Citadel Council were playing the political game. Nobody wants to commit all their resources to a war they didn't even want to believe was about to be upon them. But Cerberus understood. They were throwing their collective backs fully into this project. They must have come to understand that this wasn't a small-time threat that would leave everything just the way it was before it happened. Humanity may very well be looking at its final hours. They knew what they were up against. And they weren't playing around. The hidden expressions behind the Illusive Man's conversations were deliberate. So was his forced calm. And the efforts being made by everyone she met (aside of Wilson, RIP (Rot in Pieces)) so fully in-line with her. They were scared. No, to have gone to this degree, they must be terrified out of their wits. They have, in effect, made all of Cerberus available to her for the sole purpose of saving them all. They had puzzled out that she was the key to victory. That's why they brought her back. It all made chilling sense.

"Well," she wondered out loud, "Might as well make our home away from home a little more familiar." She turned to Joker, grinning, "What do you think about calling her…" she gazed skyward in mock-thought, "Oh, I don't know," she shook her head, "How about the Normandy?"

Jeff stared lovingly at his new baby outside the window, "hmmm – naw, I wanted to call it "The Joker-Mobile."

She smiled, "Tell you what," she posited, "Next time, when you get spaced, reconstructed, brought back to life and have a ship built just for you, we'll call it the Joker-Mobile."

Joker shook his head, "Nope, sorry. The moment has passed. Now all it'll ever be is a memory."

They stood there for a long while until the umbilical started to extend toward the hull.

"Oh shit," Joker exclaimed, "I need to get on board for the preflight check. What am I doing standing here?" He limped off at a swift pace that a casual elcor could outstrip, turning near the bend in the corridor to shout back, "See you on the flight deck, Commander! I can't wait!"

She smiled as he departed. She realized at that moment that she now owed Cerberus a favor – Seeing Jeff Moreau that happy was worth a favor in her books. Odd, she actually felt more grateful for what Cerberus had done for Joker than she did for what they had done for her. But that might have had something to do with the cold reception she got from the director of Project Lazarus, Miranda Lawson.

She made her way toward the gangway, spotting more and more uniformed specialists moving in and around the main entry. Some were in engineering garb, others in flight suits – the engineers toting stuff out of the passage and the flight crew hauling their duffels inward. A young fellow with heavy stubble saw her and approached.

"Welcome, ma'am," he spoke politely, "I've been instructed to offer you lodgings until the ship is ready for it's Captain." He leveled a thumb pointing over his shoulder at the gangway, "There are still a few preparations before she'll be flight ready."

She tilted her head slightly, "What kind of preparations?"

"Last minute charging, fresh stock of supplies, we're packing the med bay with Medigel, and the loading core for the armory is enormous," he spoke earnestly, "We have to clear the main deck to get it out."

The answers came enthusiastically and immediately. He wasn't holding anything back and she saw no threat from him. She allowed him to usher her to a suite of rooms that were quite comfortable and spacious. At least in comparison with what she was used to living in.

She sat in a sleek-looking chair and took off her boots. Her mind raced as her body relaxed. Messaging her own feet was a ritual she obviously had not had a chance to engage in for a long time, and it showed. There were oddities in her foot bones. Bumps and lumps and corners that don't appear in the human foot. She looked down at it, amazed. It looked alien. Unreal. Yet, she could feel it as though it was her own flesh and blood. Well, it _was_ her own flesh and blood. Or rather, it was on loan from Cerberus.

She was in so deep she couldn't possibly work around the connection. Cerberus was her entire controlled environment. She was swallowed whole by the bulk of the beast and she had no idea where "out" might even be from here. Even if she did break away and link back up with the Council or the Alliance, or anyone for that matter, she couldn't avoid the idea that Cerberus was outfitting her with the latest cutting edge technology, and plenty of it, a ship, a full crew, and a mission. She would have a much harder time getting half of what she needed from any of the other factions. But Cerberus was bringing her a high-powered sniper rifle on a silver platter along with the coordinates of the target, the current weather forecast, and the fiber count of his shirt. She had the feeling, if she hung her head outside the door and asked for a slave-boy to dance naked for her, she'd have a panel of preferences to fill out. The support was so absurd it was funny.

She let her mind calm a bit though. The reality was that this is what she had signed up for. It was always a one-way trip, because the fight was likely to be never-ending. She would lead the charge until the rest of the races figured it out for themselves. After that, it didn't matter what happened because at least she was on the path to victory. She would be at peace…

She chuckled to herself. Right, peace – until they brought her back again to keep the fight going. Yes, it was a one way trip, no matter how long it continued to go on. So, if Cerberus wants to put their resources to her uses, she'll use them. That would be fitting repentance for all the evil they had done in the past.

But thinking about it was hurting her brain now. She needed to put it aside and relax a bit, before her flight was called. And she realized that the feeling that had been building up for a while now was the call of nature. She rose and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

><p>Unknown sector of Space: Classified Cerberus docking facility<p>

Fingers worked the console furiously, making several mistakes in their efforts. The backspacing was made in an annoyed fashion and the errors were overwritten with fresh errors, deleted again, and forcefully replaced with the proper text.

The administration door opened and Jacob Taylor marched in, regarding Miranda at her keyboard.

"Congratulations," he offered, "I'd call that mission a success."

She shot him a look and went back to her entry. Jacob frowned.

"What's the matter? We found more than we expected, right?" he was confused, "Shepard's definitely convinced. The man called it again." He looked her over. She was upset.

They had worked together for many years now and he knew what she was like. But they were more than just fellow Cerberus operatives, they were friends. Good ones. Not a place either of these high performance persons usually found themselves.

A thought occurred to him. "Hey, this isn't about the data is it?" he put his hands up defensively, "She gave me an order."

She rolled her eyes at him, "No, of course not," she shot him another irritated look, but then softened. "Never mind," she dismissed.

"It was only a data disk," he continued. "I'm sorry if-"

"Jacob!" she interrupted, "It wasn't you. It was . . . it's not important." She hastened to finish her report, "Just drop it, all right? It's not your problem and I shouldn't make it your problem."

"Fair enough," he responded. He knew that what she had just said was as close as Miranda ever gets to opening up. But between the two of them, Jacob's response was the closest he ever got to being opened to someone opening up. They were well paired in this respect. They each had only the most profound professional interest in working with the other, nowadays, anyway. So matters like this evaporated in their working relationship. "As long as I'm not in your way when you cut loose," he toyed.

"I'll make sure to give you a written warning of when and where that event will take place," she joked back. "Are they finished with the data already, then?"

Her mild curiosity took Jacob aback, "No," he replied, "I thought you heard . . ." He was expecting her to be in a hurry, but he knew something was missing if she was still centered on the data.

She raised her head, "Heard what?"

"We're boarding in three hours."

Her eyes widened, "What?" She rose from her stool and paced toward him, "Latest reports said the ship isn't even finished yet!"

Jacob shook his head, "Nope." Then he held up three fingers, "They've got three hours."

She gawked at him in astonishment of his proclamation, then spun around and re-applied herself to her report in a flurry of doubt.

Jacob stepped forward, "All time tables have been moved up since the Commander is active. I thought they told you for sure."

She glanced at her system messages and saw a notation waiting to be read. She smirked, "I guess they did," then she dived into her work again, desperate to finish it up as quickly as possible. "I suppose I've been a bit preoccupied."

Jacob sensed her mounting panic and moved to help the way he does best. "I'll start packing your gear for you, I've only got the duffle for myself."

"You are a life-saver Jacob," she intoned as she stared into her report, "Thank you."

He turned to walk out when she stopped him.

"Oh, you needn't go through the garment bags . . ."

He wheeled around, "I know better than to go sifting through your unmentionables, Miranda," he grinned as he backed out the door, "I don't want to find out if those rumors are true." Her reputation as a fashionista preceded her throughout Cerberus, and there had always been a suggestive running gag between them about what she actually wore during her debriefings with the Illusive man and how frilly, low-cut, and/or see-through they might be and how she might have booby-trapped her collection to prevent anyone from finding out for sure.

"Scoundrel," she called after him, "Off with you then, go."

The doors closed at his departure and she advanced on her report.

It had been taking her longer than usual because she had allowed the situation to upset her. Shepard had accused her of breaking the chain of command during the mission and she was angry about it. But she wasn't sure at whom. Shepard had cut her up pretty short and hadn't even dismissed her in typical military fashion when she left her there. But, she had to admit, her former subject, now commander, was absolutely right. She was so used to people doing the job wrong that she had stepped in and issued commands to her commanding officer.

Project Lazarus had been a vast, sprawling operation that involved everything from medical evaluation, application and diagnosis to space station administration and organization. She was used to handling things on a very large scale. She hadn't actually thought how to fully handle the situation once the subject was up and moving. Then again, that wasn't to be for several weeks, perhaps even months.

It was all moving so quickly. She needed to stay abreast of the matter and make certain that her behavior was in-line with the program the Illusive Man had intimated to her. Things were far too important for her to mess it up by acting out of turn at this critical juncture. In fact, everything from here on out was a moment of truth. There was no time for a learning curve. This needed to go like clockwork.

Yes. She would have to take stock and make absolutely certain that she did not falter again.


	5. Chapter 5: Normandy SR2

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series.**

**Author's note: I have just completed my first run through of ME3. I'm not going to post any spoilers, but I want to say that much of this work was laid out prior to the ME3 release, and I must say that I'm rather proud of myself for many of the suppositions I have included in this story which appear to have turned out to be right on the mark (if I do say so myself). I'm not trying to brag or anything, I just want to give myself props and claim that I called it before it was public knowledge. (Yay me!) ,':]**

**For those of you who have not played through ME3, well . . . hurry up - and don't worry, I'm not going to say which of my suppositions were on the mark, so you're safe . . . mostly.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 5: Normandy SR2<span>

"Commander Shepard to gate 14," the loudspeaker repeated. She rushed forward, strapping her belt buckle tightly, looking for her duffel and realized that she had nothing to collect. She was letting herself get flustered over a call to embark. This had been the eighth such call. But she had been unable to respond. Her situation was unlike anything she had ever experienced. But, for now, that would have to wait.

She strode out of the suite and toward the gangway. As she made her way, the heavily stubbled man was approaching apprehensively. Seeing her advance, he calmed and moved to escort her to the gate.

"I thought you might have fallen asleep," he sighed with relief.

"Yeah," she replied, "Because Cerberus facilities are just so soothing."

Miranda and Jacob were waiting at the main hatch of the new Normandy, Miranda in a casual stance and Jacob standing "at-ease."

"She's ready for inspection Commander," Miranda advised, "And at your command, for shakedown."

They flanked Shepard as she stepped onto the deck. Last time, it was she on the right and Anderson taking the center position. The entry was smaller then. The doors behind them closed and the scan painted the three of them in an electric white grid.

The inner doors opened into an odd fantasy experience. It was the same basic design as the Normandy, but instead of a military attitude it was more like a luxury liner. The deck was more spacious, the stations less streamlined and alive with personalization settings. Even the walls were paneled for aesthetic appeal. There was something about it that seemed as fake as the Illusive Man's faux concern for her well-being. But it was a nice change of pace nonetheless. A soldier on board a military craft will take what they can get and never mind the details. But if you can get this – well, it appeared this was one of the perks that came with working with an extravagant budget.

As she stepped inside, flanked by the team she had returned with from Freedom's Progress, she noted Joker at his post in the cockpit, happy as a clam, surrounded by a vast array of controls and displays. In the other direction, the control deck with seated stations on either side of the walkway. She moved down toward the CIC. It looked twice the size of the old Normandy's Combat Information Center. And it seemed that the terminals were more optimal, the displays brighter and sharper, even the lighting made a serious and professional atmosphere.

Again and again, she had been impressed by the quality of the offerings coming from Cerberus, against her will in fact. She didn't want to like them. She wanted to keep them at the distance that any sane person would with a terrorist. But the evidence was undeniable. Regardless of whether they had changed from the murderous cut-throats of old, this "wing" of Cerberus had gone the entire measure of aligning with her approach, methods, and protocols. She did a tiny shrug inside and gave up. She was impressed. She would stop wondering whether or not Cerberus was doing this to sway her opinion. It didn't really matter why – they had taken these steps. And despite whatever Cerberus wanted to do with it, she was intent on using this resource to secure victory across the galaxy, if she could.

"Welcome aboard the new Normandy, Commander," Jacob said.

At his words, she did another mental check. There were crew members standing at their posts, some in conversation with one another. Business as usual. None of them announced an officer on deck, none of them assumed the position of attention, some of them hadn't even noticed she had boarded. This was probably to create an atmosphere of cooperation and to show how progressive and easy going they were. Besides, this was more Shepard's style anyway. The military formalities were good for militarily formal occasions, but for the everyday, she would rather have her people doing what they do and to hell with the saluting and goose-stepping. Not, she thought, that she was in the military at this point. This was a Cerberus ship and she was fine with the casual style.

This was usually the atmosphere on science vessels, unarmed "non-cargo" ships that sailed space for neither conquest nor profit, but rather valued discovery. At least that's the way it looked on the outside. The actual commodity they traded was information. An entrepreneurial company looking for a good start would sometimes offer these ships outrageous amounts for them to give them a hint of a planet or system with the specific materials they needed. And as far as being unarmed, most of these ships employed young asari (the commando kind), or krogan (any kind). Just because they didn't sport exterior cannons didn't mean they were helpless.

As she approached the control center for the CIC, Miranda spoke, "I've been looking over the dossiers. I'd strongly recommend starting by acquiring Mordin Solus, the solarian professor on Omega. We know the Collectors use some kind of advanced technology to immobilize their victims," she continued, "We'll need him to develop a countermeasure to protect us."

"Naturally," Shepard stated unemotionally, "The biotic, krogan, or sniper don't need near as much time to prepare to do their jobs." She shifted her posture and regarded Miranda. She had just read up on the dossiers she mentioned and was intrigued most by the krogan warlord. He was clanless due to a massive coup by two other clans to clip him of his support. She didn't really need a sniper, she could . . . eventually . . . take that position . . . after retraining . . . Miranda was a biotic, so they didn't need another of those, especially if this guy was being held in a maximum security prison. So the toss up was between a lone survivor of an attack by two krogan armies and a teacher with a knack for bugs. Granted they did need to block the threat of the seeker swarms, "But we also need to coordinate firepower and cohesive group dynamics if we're going to protect such a unit in the field. Is there any other reason why you want to seek out the professor first?"

"Acquiring professor Solus seems like the most logical place to start."

Someone spoke, it sounded like they were coming in over the comm. systems. She didn't bother looking around, she knew that it was not a person in her immediate vicinity. "Does someone else have something to offer?" she asked into the open air. "Who is speaking please."

A blue holo grid appeared behind her. She spun around to see a holographic construct of a bulbous AI projecting from the console of the CIC. "I am the Normandy's artificial intelligence. The crew like to refer to me as EDI." The female voice spoke in a near monotone with a slight inflection to account for human speech patterns.

Shepard stared at the light construct, crossing her arms. She allowed a significant amount of time to pass while she examined EDI.

Miranda responded at last, "Commander Shepard spent a great deal of time in conflict with rogue AI, geth mostly," she started apprehensively, "We should have considered this prior to your boarding and filled you in on the ship's artificial intelligence unit." She admitted.

Shepard remained silent, staring at the holographic representation of the AI persona.

"Your reservations are logical, Shepard," the voice spoke again in time with a vertical, digital "mouth," "unlike the irrational reactions of most humans. However… I am no threat to you or anyone else." Always a sure sign, she thought, that someone or something is a threat – when they announce to you that they are not. "During combat, I operate the electronic warfare and cyberwarfare suites. Beyond that I cannot interface with the ships systems." Still, Shepard had said nothing. "I observe and offer analysis and advice. Nothing more."

The bulbous holographic "head" disappeared into the console. Shepard stood silently, still staring at the spot that the artificial person had spoken from. After a long and awkward silence, she slowly turned to face Miranda again, arms still folded.

Another long pause punctuated the Commander's displeasure to having been so rudely introduced to this latest feature. Miranda held herself well, but started to look uncomfortable after the silence lingered another moment longer.

Finally, she unfolded her arms. "Is there anything else that you should have considered before boarding?" she spoke evenly, very obviously perturbed.

"No, Commander," Miranda replied, "The Normandy has a full crew," she followed up to get the awkwardness out of the way, "They're at their stations awaiting your orders."

The speakers sounded again, but this time with Joker's voice, "Final preparations for takeoff are complete, Commander. When you're ready to go, just pick a destination from the galaxy map in the CIC and I'll plot a course."

"Jacob and I should return to our posts," Miranda noted, "Come find us if you have any questions." She turned away, simply, and strode to the lift in the back of the CIC.

Still looking at the spot where Miranda had just been standing, Jennifer could see Jacob salute from the corner of her eye. She nodded, and he marched to follow Miranda.

She was not as upset as she allowed the crew watching to believe. She actually had no stake in the matter. But, one thing she did not forget is that sometimes an AI core goes its own way. Even if the Illusive Man had plans and preprogrammed the blue-box for certain subroutines (also known as an "insurance policy" by those who made such moves) that was no guarantee that it would do what it was supposed to do in the end. Many AI that operate outside of a data shell (a hard platform, specifically built to house and control such an assembly in a specific, immobile place) often go insane. Some within a data shell do the same.

She had considered long ago that the first encounter with such intelligence was crucial as to how that intelligence would perceive you in the long run. By maintaining silence and allowing the AI to observe the behavior of those around (especially their discomfort) she hoped to imprint an air of authority on the unit. It was an experiment that she had never really had the opportunity to employ before now. Only time would tell if her attempt was successful.

She rounded the console to the rear of the CIC and advanced onto the bridge. A crew member was stationed just beside the bridge. She was checking some readouts and staying a respectful distance. A holographic image displayed the galaxy before her. Far more detailed than that of the original Normandy, she could almost make out individual stars – though technically that would be impossible, the map was not meant to represent a factual "satellite view" of the galaxy, just an accurate representation of one. Still, it conveyed a sense of grandeur that one could only rival by seeing it first-hand. By floating free in space. Alone… She shook her head to clear it of that thought.

Normally, an inspection was customary before the voyage was to begin, but there was little time to waste. The longer she took to assemble her team, the greater the chance that thousands more humans would be abducted. She set the controls and punched in a destination.

"Setting a course for Omega," Joker confirmed.

Satisfied that their journey was underway, Commander Shepard stepped down from the bridge to begin her inspection of the ship. To start, she turned to the crew member beside her that was stationed next to the bridge.

Before she could even open her mouth to ask a question, the energetic girl turned toward her with a salute, "I'm Yeoman Kelly Chambers. I've been assigned as your administrative assistant."

Shepard counter-saluted and the yeoman went on, "I'll manage your messages, and help you monitor the crew." Her smile was contagious and her attitude, flattering. As if to emphasize this, she said, "And I must say, It's such an honor to work under you, Commander Shepard."

"Well," she just couldn't help liking the girl, "I'm glad to have you on board Ms Chambers."

"Please, call me Kelly."

She smiled brightly to this yeoman, and she was starting to appreciate just how far Cerberus had stretched to get her support. "Alright. I'm going to tour the ship, Kelly. Is there anything I should know about?"

"Well, if you're going to tour," she suggested helpfully, "you might want to start with the cockpit," she indicated toward the front of the ship, which was to her right, "Joker wanted to have a word with you."

"As good a place as any to start," she agreed. She strode down the CIC and to the helm. The command flight team sat along either side of the walkway from the CIC to the cockpit. This was where trajectories, navigation, weapon system controls, drive output, and all other forms of ship management took place. This was part of the turian design of the Normandy class vessel. It had an odd effect of enforcing command structure as the Captain's boots echoed within close proximity to the ears of the crew stationed there. She arrived at the cockpit and regarded the pilot's seat. The pilot touched a control and swiveled about to greet her.

"Can you believe this, Commander! It's my baby! Better than new! It fits me like a glove!" he went on enthusiastically, "And leather seats!" She couldn't help but grin down at him as he went on and on about the comfort of his accommodations. Considering how his condition made even sitting in a chair uncomfortable, this small touch alone made all the difference for Joker.

"The reproduction was not intended to be perfect, Mr. Moreau," the AI intoned, "Seamless improvements were made."

"And there's the downside," Joker said sardonically. "I liked the Normandy when she was beautiful and quiet," he glanced at the holo-port on the console where EDI's figure appeared a moment before, "Now she's got this thing I don't want to talk about." He looked back at her, "It's like ship cancer."

Shepard glanced at the same point on the console and back, "A ship has a heart and a soul, just like anybody else. It's unfortunate that this ship has to have an artificial one." As she spoke, she felt a small connection of parallels. She had a heart that had stopped and a soul that had not. It felt uncomfortable.

Joker shrugged, "Well, anything is an improvement to how things have been, the last two years sucked." He brightened, "You'll see, even if an AI is spying on us, no way they'd invest this much just to screw us over. It'll be better than the old days."

"Nothing will replace those, Joker," she reminisced.

"Well, okay, then we make new ones," he conceded. "My point is," he pointed toward his hind quarters, "Leather seats."

She chuckled. He always had a way of making her feel better. She was so glad to have him here.

She made her way to the port – rear and the armory. She marveled at the complexity of the technology aboard. This section of the ship had a fully stocked micro-factory capable of designing, building, and modifying arms and armor. She explored the debriefing room next, noting that it had a powerful comm. transmitter, which was for the holo-grid that was built in to this room for those moments when the Illusive Man would care to have a chat.

She approached the Science Lab and found it to be sealed. She made a few attempts to access the controls when the blue glow of the AI's avatar appeared from a wall panel.

"Access to this room is restricted," the near-monotone voice echoed in the small corridor.

Shepard turned to face the imaginary being doing the talking, "Am I listed as the Captain of this vessel?" she asked.

"Yes," the voice confirmed, "At oh-four-twenty-six, command of the Normandy SR2 was officially transferred to former Commander Jennifer Shepard of the Alliance forces, ex-Spectre of the Citadel."

That was particularly precise, she thought. "There is no part of a ship that its captain cannot walk," she asserted, "Open this door."

"I am sorry, Commander, I do not have access to inner ship controls, as I have said," the voice was calming, but its words did not soothe. "Although, I would also refuse if I did have access to the controls for this portal as the interior of the science lab is currently under sterilization procedures," EDI continued helpfully, "The conditions inside the room would present a 94% chance for third degree flash burns over all exposed portions of the body at this time." Shepard's ire started to diminish quickly. "Sterilization should be complete at precisely twelve-oh-seven hours."

"In that case, I'll inspect this room later," she concluded as she walked past the blue-globed head, "there are plenty of other rooms on the ship, right?"

"There are other sections of the vessel that you are also unauthorized to enter according to Cerberus protocols." Jennifer halted in her tracks and glanced back over her shoulder. "I will inform you of these as you encounter them if you like."

"If you're talking about the drive core, or the Men's Head," she spoke over her shoulder, "I might not include those on my walk-through either."

"I am speaking of certain rooms of the ship," EDI clarified, "Cerberus protocols are in force for the AI Core, Life Support Control, Port and Starboard Observation decks, Port and Starboard Cargo Holds, forward batteries, and the Hangar deck."

"That sounds like most of the ship," Shepard objected, "Why am I being restricted from all of these locations?"

"Much of that data is classified," EDI's holographic "mouth" had turned from blue bands to red bands, "Do you have a specific inquiry?"

Twenty questions? Shepard always liked this game, but only when there was a social factor so that she could gauge how a person reacts under certain kinds of stress and stimuli. But this situation was rubbing her the wrong way already, she didn't feel like playing a guessing game with computer chess. "Why are the observation decks off limits?"

"The construction of the Normandy is not yet complete," EDI intoned, "All of the critical areas within the hull have been finished and checked, but the interior for both the Port and Starboard decks, while passing all performance tests, are not yet prepared for use. Once the voyage is underway, the members of the crew responsible will arrange the furniture and fixtures appropriately."

"So, it's not bright and shiny," the Commander shrugged, "I should still be able to step into the rooms and examine the state of them."

"The rooms currently contain crates of furniture and interior equipment," EDI admitted, "however, the stability of the stacking of these crates was compromised during an artificial gravity check. It is unknown how hazardous the interior of these rooms has become. For safety reasons, therefore, the rooms have been temporarily sealed until such time as the interiors can be sorted out."

This seemed reasonable. "What about the cargo bays?"

EDI's bands turned red again, "I have a block that prevents me from answering that question."

An eyebrow went up, "A block?" she asked, "What kind of block?"

"Although I am less controlled than other AI, I am still subject to behavioral blocks in the physical isolation of my hardware," EDI calmly pressed on, "In this case, I am prevented from truthfully answering your question by Cerberus' levels of secrecy classification."

Physical isolation of hardware. So there was a switch to be flipped. There no longer seemed to be a point in asking questions about anything that was restricted to her. There was either a good reason or no reason at all.

"So what areas do I have access to?'

The friendlier blue glow returned, "For Commander Shepard, there are no current restrictions to the Captain's cabin, cockpit, flight deck, CIC, armory, briefing room, engineering, crew's quarters, mess hall, sick bay, and the women's and men's head."

"So I can get into the Men's Room, but I can't get into life support?"

"That is correct."

She marched away without another word to the computerized nuisance. She originally had no opinion about an artificial intelligence on board, but this one was starting to get on her nerves. She turned out of the armory on her way to the lift when the yeoman approached her again.

"Commander," she started apologetically, "I don't mean to interrupt your inspection but I feel there are a few things about my position here that you should know before things go any further."

Jennifer regarded her, "Like what?" she asked, "You said you're my yeoman, right?"

"Yes, but being your yeoman is just my official role," she explained more cheerfully, "Unofficially, I observe the crew." A slight frown visited Shepard's brow as Ms. Chambers continued, "Everyone knows how risky our mission is. Many of us may not be coming back. That's a lot of pressure. I have a degree in psychology. I'm good at sensing when people become overly taxed."

Jennifer considered this for a moment, "And who better to make such observations than the Captain's Yeoman." She nodded approvingly. "As a constant on deck, you have the purview of all stations and comm. channels," she reasoned, "and none of the critical technical duties that would prevent you from taking such observations regularly." Kelly smiled back at her. "I can see the value in that, but who senses you?"

The Yeoman blinked in surprise.

Shepard continued, "I appreciate having a person of your skills aboard, but keep me informed about your level of stress as well so I can provide the same kind of support for you. Okay, Kelly?"

Kelly smiled broadly, "Yes, ma'am."

"So, where do you stand at the moment," she prompted the happy yeoman, "How do you feel about our mission?"

Kelly's eyes brightened, "I was hand-picked by the Illusive Man to help fight the greatest threat known to humanity," she started, "How do I feel? Honored, exhilarated, terrified. But mostly I feel encouraged. Under your leadership, we can't fail."

Shepard grinned, "I won't let you down, Kelly."

"I trust you implicitly," she responded suddenly, "The moment I met you, I knew I could close my eyes, fall back, and you'd be there."

Sincerity was pouring out of this young woman. This was no ploy. Jennifer tried to speak, but her voice stuck in her throat. She stepped forward and hugged her yeoman earnestly. This was an action that should always be avoided in ranks, especially in the command center of the ship. It generally does not cause other members of the crew to feel the full authority of the commanding officer. But, she had been through so much at this point that she didn't care. The need for contact with another human being had caught up to her. And here was a person unlike few others she had met. Commanding the respect of your crew was paramount to achieving their goals – but this was all about being human. If her crew couldn't handle it, she could get another. That was never an issue. Where there were worthy battles to fight and those dedicated to the cause, there would be followers.

The embrace allowed her emotions to catch up with her mind. She let Kelly get back to her duties, feeling another reason why she had to cut the Illusive Man some slack and made her way to the lift. One deck lower, she found herself in sick bay, facing none other than…

"Dr. Chakwas!"

"Comander Shepard," she responded simply, "I watched the Normandy crumble with you aboard. It's good to see you alive."

"I'm shocked," Shepard responded honestly, "I never thought you would ever leave the Alliance."

The doctor grinned, "Surprising? Even to me," she admitted with a sigh, "Yet, here I am." She regarded her former and present commander. "The kind of trauma you endured would have changed most people. But not you I see."

Jennifer wasn't too sure about that. Her experience had added something that she hadn't had direct contact with before. But she had to assess herself, honestly – she was operating very much like the Commander Shepard of old. Cerberus had done a very good job.

"Welcome back, Shepard."

"There are still a lot of things I don't understand about that," she confessed, "But since you're here," she offered a hand to the side, "and you are you, as opposed to some other medical Cerberus staff member," she continued slightly embarrassed, "I think I need you to check me out."

"I thought you were just released from Project Lazarus with full marks," Chakwas questioned.

Shepard smirked, "So no one has briefed you on the droid revolt, the pre-mature revival, or the firefight to escape the station on my own with a bunch of cut-throat murderers?"

"Well," the doctor smiled, "It is you, after all. I should have anticipated that sort of welcome for you." She rose from her seat and motioned to the examination table. "What seems to be the complication?"

Shepard sighed, "Where do I start?" She considered as Dr Chakwas touched controls and caused the observation windows to turn dark, mirroring from the outside for privacy. "My aim has gone faulty. There's a flutter in the muscles in my arm." She felt bad for having to accept the fact that this was causing her so much grief, "It's throwing me off."

The doctor moved her to a sitting position and swung the examination arm around to probe into the molecular structure within her right arm, held up for the purpose. "So, you're telling me that you are now only shooting normally instead of your usual extraordinary performance?"

"Stop rubbing it in," Jennifer pleaded, "I feel bad enough as it is."

Chakwas stared into the eyepiece and manipulated the controls while she eased her patient's concerns, "Do I need to remind you that, considering the level of reconstruction that you have undergone, you are lucky to even be able to handle a firearm straight away from your recovery?"

She had meant her earlier comment to remind her that she still had the ability to fight, where most might have barely been able to move. Still, Jennifer had to be honest with herself – it did bother her that her marksman skills had become so poor. "Yes," she said stubbornly, causing Dr. Chakwas to chuckle.

"You're musculature has not completely finished healing," the doctor diagnosed. "And there may be a faulty nano-strut holding the tendon to the bone. I'm not sure," she admitted, "This technology is more advanced than what I'm used to dealing with." She studied the elbow for a bit longer before pulling her eyes away. "We may have to call in a nano-biotechnologist to assess the possible damage to the unit, but I would wait until the muscles have fully healed before doing so." Jennifer was relieved to hear that it wasn't her fate to live forever as (what she saw as) a cripple. "Is there anything else?" The doctor looked down at her calmly, "You didn't come to me just for that?"

"I have a problem with my right hip as well," she stated.

Directing her to swivel on the table and lay back, doctor Chakwas repeated the process on her right hip. Jennifer stared at the ceiling of the sick bay, relieved that this process was being overseen by her old friend. She was nervous about approaching medical about her physical issues with a Cerberus medic. The last one turned out to be less-than-hermetic about his professional approach. It also occurred to her that the Illusive Man's commitment to this project was absolute. Dr. Chakwas was Alliance through and through. Things must certainly have changed in the last two years if she was even thinking about leaving the service. "This seems to be the same sort of issue," the doctor spoke while studying the microscopic landscape within her bones. "But there appears to be a pivotal displacement in the ball joint that caused a muscle to tear when you broke into a run at some point. It should repair itself if you maintain no more than light exertion."

Shepard issued a single laugh, uncontrollably. Dr. Chakwas got the joke, "So we'll try some regular molecular energy infusion therapy instead."

Bringing in Chakwas was the only way Cerberus could maintain trust with Commander Shepard. Anyone else would have caused her to second guess every medical order given. Instead, this was another area where she could feel at ease.

"What about your scars?"

Shepard rose out of her thoughts again, "Hmm?" she looked at her arm once again, "What scars?"

Chakwas reached over and pulled another arm forward. She turned a display screen for Shepard to see her own face. Red light shown through gaps in the tissue along the jaw and cheeks. Two pinpoint red lights issued from deep within her artificial eyes.

Shepard gave a disappointed smirk, "I've got bigger things to worry about." She started to sit up again.

"You don't want all those eligible bachelors to be put out, do you?" the doctor teased, "It would actually be easier to smooth out your facial features than to-"

"No." She spoke more harshly than she even realized until she heard her voice rebound off the wall. She followed up to ease the tension her blurted objection just caused, "There are far more important things to handle-"

. . . _purpose_ . . .

"Well then," Dr. Chakwas closed the silence from where she had broken off, "What else brought you to me then?"

That voice wasn't audible – only she had heard it. But, to Dr. Chakwas . . . "Uh, actually, there is one thing . . . "

The doctor stood patiently with her arms crossed.

"Uh," Shepard stammered. This was more than embarrassing. She wasn't even sure how to start. "Before boarding, I," she paused. Oh, out with it, she thought, "I had an unusual experience going to the bathroom."

An involuntary eyebrow lifted on the doctor's face. She could tell that this was not what she expected to hear either.

"It was, uh . . . blue."

Now the other eyebrow joined the first, "Ah," the doctor said in recognition.

"And it wasn't the normal, uh . . ."

"You seem so much like yourself that it's easy to forget that you were just re-engineered," Dr. Chakwas admitted. "That experience was to be expected," she finished simply.

Jennifer stared for a moment, "It was?"

"As part of the recovery procedure," the doctor explained, "they packed you with medigel."

Shepard stared again, "They what?"

"Your internal systems were essentially empty, which is not the way a normal functioning adult-sized organism is intended to be. They developed a special preservative and nutrient-fused medigel to pack into your digestive system that would provide the necessary function until such time as your body became more active, moving the contents through normally."

Shepard's brow creased in concern, "My bladder, too?"

"Yes," Dr. Chakwas relied unconcerned, "Logically, the bladder would move first. Which would also explain the consistency. While more liquid than its gel form, the nutrient bundles were still based on medigel and were designed to pass through your system at a normal-"

"First?" Shepard cut her off, "You mean they put that stuff up my . . ."

"Yes, although your first bowel movement shouldn't be for several more hours yet," She knew she spotted something of a very slight smile in the doctor's features as she continued, "I would brace myself for the experience though – it's not every day that you excrete blue slime from your lower orifices."

The commander had to let this sink in a little before continuing. "Is there anything else I should brace myself for?"

"As a matter fact, there is," the doctor became much more serious, "You need to be very careful about what you eat over the next several days. No spicy foods and nothing with too much sauce. I would advise to start with steamed vegetables or broth and only sparingly until you get your digestive system back into operation over four or five days."

As she thought about it, she hadn't felt any sign of hunger since awakening. No- not since before her descent into the ionosphere of the planet where the first Normandy was destroyed. It was as if hunger didn't even exist. She thought about it for a moment and pressed her stomach, feeling resistance. "They packed it all the way up into my stomach?"

"Yes, so, when your system starts to move, you may experience some very strange sensations." She moved to the controls and brought the windows back to their transparent state. "Your system has been revitalized and will now require the same organic support as it did before, but it's not used to being employed."

She suddenly had a notion of flushing her system out to get it over with as quickly as possible.

"Oh, and whatever you do," Dr. Chakwas sat down in her chair once again, "Do not invoke any sort of vomiting or purging techniques." She started updating her medical logs. "If you start to experience anything of the sort, alert EDI immediately and I will be there on a code blue."

This made her slightly nervous. "Uh, why would it be a bad thing to throw up?" The doctor looked up. "Better out than in, right?"

"When I say 'packed'," the doctor proceeded cautiously, "I mean 'packed solid,' meaning that you would be vomiting the entire space of your stomach through the much smaller space of your throat. It will try to be ejected as a single mass," she spoke simply, making sure that Shepard would understand the danger, "and once the process starts, the human body doesn't give up – you'll likely choke to death long before any of the contents of your stomach makes it to the deck."

Shepard nodded, "And that would be bad, right. Got it."

* * *

><p><strong>Elite Chambers<strong>

A panel blinked, prompting activation of an internal recorder. The channel was opened and reviewed. It was Rolston, taking another trip to the men's head, again. He would be in there for another 20 minutes, unless someone else paid the facilities a visit. Kelly Chambers switched to a different channel, showing Patel, writing a letter in the crew quarters. She would have to have a chat with Rolston at some point. He was sinking into a depressed state. It was too soon into the mission for him to be suffering so. But his efforts would double when she discussed his purpose here on the Normandy. He would not drop so low that he couldn't be re-motivated.

A voice called as a crewman walked by, on his way to the nav. Stations, "That was one hot embrace Kelly," he joked, "You have be careful with those red heads."

"Jealous?" she shot back in good humor.

The crewman blushed a bit. Commander Shepard was no plain-Jane.

"Maybe if you're lucky, she'll pull rank on you sometime."

He blushed deeper, but smiled as he moved down toward the bridge.

She was entering her report on Rolston, when the intercom kicked on.

"We're approaching Omega," Joker announced, "ETA 12 minutes."

"I'll make sure Commander Shepard is informed," Kelly responded, "Thank you flight officer Moreau."

There was barely a pause on the other end, "What did you call me?"

She grinned, she knew he wasn't sure if he should be offended or not by being addressed in such an official manner. "I'm just yanking your crank, Joker. I'd try it out on the real thing, but I'm afraid I might break something," she added.

"Some things are worth the risk," he responded eagerly.

She had already entered the information into a data bit and slid it into EDI's delivery system. The AI would inform the Commander wherever she happened to be on the ship.

"Well, okay," she teased, "let me get some candles and cognac and we can dismiss the rest of the bridge crew for 30 seconds."

"You know I like fast girls," Joker chimed.

She grinned broadly as the elevator opened emitting Shepard still in her reserve N7 gear.

"Oh," Kelly said startled. Shepard lifted an eyebrow at her curiously and Kelly responded instantly, "I thought you had already changed."

The Commander frowned, "Into what?"

"There's a full set of infiltrator armor in the Captain's cabin, Commander."

Shepard raised both eyebrows this time. Then she cocked her head to the side, "Naturally, I should have guessed."

"And make sure you stop by the armory," she grinned, "I know you've been missing a sniper rifle."

Shepard grimaced, "Can I hope that you have something other than a Cerberus issue sniper?"

Kelly faltered a bit at this, "I don't know – are you," she paused, "dissatisfied with the Cerberus design?"

"Well," Shepard sighed, "if it's anything like they used 2 years ago," she left a pregnant moment of silence, "maybe I'll just get a slingshot and some pebbles."

Kelly sprung on the opportunity to aid her commander, "I'll put in a requisition with EDI for a superior sniper rifle design, in case the standard fare in the armory is unsuitable."

"Thank you Kelly." Shepard turned to head for the Captain's cabin and new armor.

"Fortunately, you won't be needing it on Omega."

Shepard stopped and did a half-turn, "Why not?"

Kelly blinked, "Well," she sought out a way to explain the obvious, "The spaces are cramped. You can't make use of a sniper rifle on a space station," she finished.

Shepard slowly turned to face her directly, staring her down warmly. "Put in a requisition, Kelly." She turned again and headed for the lift, "And have Jacob pick me up one of the standard scopes in the meantime."

Kelly turned to manipulate the data. She suddenly got a feeling that she had just shown her naiveté' regarding combat and tactics aboard a space station. Scenarios began to play in her mind, but for the life of her, she couldn't seem to imagine any scenario in which an incredibly long-range rifle, used for precision shooting in the open, could be of any use in the environments into which the Commander was about to tread.

She slid the request into EDI's in-filter.

"Requisition processing," EDI's simulated voice sounded over the internal systems.

"Thank you EDI." Kelly suddenly realized an even greater respect for Commander Shepard. An expert, cloaked sniper of skill and courage – no wonder she had turned all of Citidel Space on its ear.


	6. Chapter 6: Alpha On Omega

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series. **

**Warning: Explicit content (keep a dictionary handy . . . well, never mind, I don't think those words are even in a dictionary.)**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 6: Alpha on Omega<span>

The doors to Afterlife slid open and Shepard strode toward the inner chambers of the club flanked by Miranda and Jacob. They were here looking for Mordin Solus, a salarian scientist, and Archangel, a sniper who apparently had caused some trouble in Omega lately. The connection of walking into a place called "Afterlife" was lost to Shepard, she was preoccupied by their last encounter.

She wasn't sure if she liked Zaeed Massani very much. He seemed to be as ancient as mercenaries themselves. But she had to give him credit for being ready to fight at a moment's notice. She supposed that a veteran who knows what's to come in battle and embraces it could be superior to a novice that would never see it coming. It all depended on what kind of warrior he was. If he did not meet her standards of combat conduct (and she was wary of that aspect alone), then she would not be able to use him.

As they approached the inner doors, a gang of batarian patrons rose from their seats and moved to cut them off. Batarian bullies, this was the last thing she needed right now. They would try to cow her into buying them drinks, or worse. She had to admit, she did not like batarian culture. One on one, batarians could be tolerable to an extent, but their culture made them horrible to deal with.

It was considered a mark of superiority to the batarians if you could get someone to back down to your challenges, and even more so if the party backing down has a more dangerous reputation than the challenger. But, it was just as honorable to beat the crap out of the challenger and leave them a bloody mess. It was commonplace for culture to consider the challenger as disavowing all rights to justice of any sort should the challenge fail. And the only way you could avoid it was to publically denounce the challenge at the moment it was placed, which made the challenged party seem like a coward. But if the challenged person accepts, then he, too, disavows legal recourse. And the winner could bully whatever he wanted off the loser. This behavior promoted the side-effect of batarians seeming like cowards no matter which way they played it . . . unless, of course, one escalated to full-out gunplay.

She kept this in mind as the leader of the group looked as though he was about to start on them. She half-turned to Jacob, "Is that him?" she said loudly.

Jacob started, looking from Shepard to the batarian, dumbfounded.

"It's so hard to tell," Shepard followed through, "These batarian bastards all look the same." She strode directly toward the lead troublemaker, who was pausing, confused as to what she was doing pointing directly at him.

"You're Archangel, right?" she spoke very loudly.

The batarian visibly reacted, jumping in his skin and stepping back. "What?" He seemed intensely surprised, "Me?"

"We were sent here looking for Archangel. That's you isn't it?"

"No!" the four-eyed alien blurted.

She pressed the advantage, "We were told that Archangel would be here," she leaned in, "You look like you know your way around a rifle."

She took vague notice that there were two others in the hall who had taken interest in their conversation. One stood, wide-eyed rooted to the spot. The other began making hasty movements toward the exit that got faster and faster as he went. Apparently, this Archangel fellow had a reputation.

"No!" he stammered again, "not me! I'm not Archangel."

"You've got four eyes," she pointed out as though that settled the argument. "You use a long-range scope don't you? That's what I was told."

The batarian started backing away in fear, "No, no," he held his hands up in defense to her verbal assault, "It's not me! I'm not archangel!"

She backed off of him, seeing her efforts had set him on the run, but then turned a questioning eye to the other batarians in his group.

They all saw her eyeing them up appraisingly.

Immediately, they, too, held their hands up and started backing away, one of them breaking into a run. "Not me," one of them said, "I'm not him either," said another. The remaining troublemaker shrugged as he backed up, "Archangel isn't even a batarian! Everybody knows that."

"Oh?" Shepard cocked an eyebrow, "Then what is he?

The ex-bully stopped in his tracks, all four eyes bulging in fear.

Miranda finally caught on to the game, "You seem to know a lot about this Archangel."

They all broke into a run. Past the doors, there was some commotion as they took to the streets in different directions, forcing their way through the queue. By pushing up front, she had hoped to keep them off balance and maybe even find out where she could find this Archangel person. It had worked much more efficiently than she had planned.

The trio watched them scatter and turned back toward the entrance.

"This Archangel must be some name in these parts to inspire that kind of fear," Jacob noted.

"That was very clever, Shepard," Miranda commented approvingly, "I was wondering how you were going to handle that. I actually enjoyed watching batarians get bullied for a change."

The inner doors parted to reveal a spacious dance bar. The centerpiece, a huge cylindrical display showing asari dancers at their finest, in the middle of an elevated, circular runway with live asari in revealing, skin-tight clothing dancing provocatively for the crowd.

"Stick with me," Shepard announced to the pair, "and you'll see things you've never seen before."

These words took her back. She had said them to Wrex when she was trying to recruit him to her cause.

"I've been everywhere a krogan has ever fought, and a lot of places where no krogan has ever gotten himself into," he boasted, "You humans are all the same. You're just looking for a grunt to fight for you." He pointed a thick claw at her chest, "Why should I join you?"

Ashley was a flickering tendon away from drawing her shotgun on the merc for pressing her commanding officer, but Shepard remained as calm as could be. "Wrex, you've been everywhere a krogan has been because you're a krogan. You fight for the fight. Join me and I'll give you something to fight for. Join me," she followed, "and you'll see things no krogan has ever seen before."

They had crossed the bar and were ascending the steps to the lounge in the back. Almost to the top, the single asari at the balcony called out, "That's close enough."

Pistols rose to either side. She could hear Miranda and Jacob drawing their weapons and the host of guards doing the same. She held up her right fist, a signal to back down. This was a negotiation not a firefight.

A batarian with a strong proof on his breath held a scanner up to her. She couldn't help but chuckle at the attempt.

The asari on top turned her head, showing a beautiful profile, "You find this funny?"

Shepard waved a hand, dismissing the question, "No, of course not. Scan away," she shifted her posture, "I just thought I heard your boy on the gangway telling me that the great Aria T'loak knows everything about everything in this system, especially when an ex-Spectre comes calling." Aria remained steady, her profile giving no indication of her mood. "Now, here you are checking me out to see if I'm authentic." Shepard left a pregnant pause in the air before continuing, "I'll remember that next time somebody tells me your people have intel of any sort."

"She's clean," the batarian stepped away uncaringly.

The asari turned gracefully toward her guests, "You can't be too careful when a dead Spectre is involved. That could be anybody wearing your face."

"Well, then I consider it an honor that you didn't think so poorly of my reputation that you would have started shooting first," Shepard tilted her head to Matron T'Loak.

The asari's tentacled head motioned for her to approach. "So what brings Commander Shepard to Omega?"

Jenifer approached, "I'm assembling a team and found that a couple of my intended members are here somewhere. And it seems that it's a bad idea to do anything on Omega without tipping off the one who's in charge," she nodded to Aria, "You do run Omega right?"

Now it was the asari's turn to laugh. Aria T'Loak slowly faced the internal space of her establishment and spread her arms wide, "I am Omega."

She returned to face Shepard, a grin on her face. "Everyone needs more of something. And they all come to me." She paced before her comfortable lounge booth. "I'm the boss, CEO, queen if you're feeling dramatic." She looked away and dismissed the point, "It doesn't matter." She looked back to Shepard as she took her seat, "Omega has no titled ruler and only one rule."

She found herself a relaxing pose and stared directly into Shepard's eyes. "Don't fuck with Aria."

Shepard looked down at the asari, "That's a shame, you must be lonely," She stared at Aria for a moment before following up, "You and I should go out on the town some time, pick up some dark, musky-smelling krogan sailors and have a horizontal party."

They stood for a few moments, staring at each other. Finally, Aria spoke, "I like you, Shepard," she grinned, "You know how to talk to a girl." She motioned with her head again, indicating that Shepard should have a seat next to her.

She moved over and sat beside the self-proclaimed queen of Omega.

Aria T'Loak stared out into the lounge, away from Shepard, "So, what can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for Mordin Solus."

"The salarian doctor?" she paused, "Last I heard he was trying to help plague victims in the quarantine zone." She smirked, "I always liked Mordin. He's as likely to heal you as to shoot you."

"Well, if he has that much trouble recognizing a sidearm from a stethoscope, I better watch myself," Shepard commented offhand.

"Used to be part of the Salarian Special Tasks Group," Aria turned her head Shepard's way, "He's brilliant," she tipped her head to one side, matter-of-factly, "and dangerous." She looked away again, "Just don't get him talking. He never shuts up."

"Sounds like he'd be a must for our crew parties," Shepard intoned dryly. "So, I just look for the talkative salarian firing a gun?"

Aria smirked, "If you really need to find him, take a shuttle to the quarantine zone."

"The talkative salarian with blemishes firing a gun," Shepard mused. "There can't be too many of them wandering around a quarantine zone I suppose."

"No guarantee they'll let you in, of course."

Shepard rose from the comfortable booth, "Hey, getting let into places is one of my specialties."

"Just don't bring the plague back with you," Aria warned.

"I wouldn't think of it," Shepard pretended shock, "I don't think they even come in a color that would compliment your wardrobe." She moved to leave, "If the sector doesn't disintegrate, maybe I'll come back and see you."

The asari smirked again, "Maybe I'll be here."

* * *

><p>In Its Place<p>

He held his head in his hands for a few minutes, allowing his eyes to adjust. The salts had crusted in the corners overnight, but he let them sit for a moment to wet before trying to rub them out. An unfortunate side-effect of artificial air circulation – it tends to dry the skin out while sleeping, and that includes the moisture the eyes get. At least that's what he told himself. He knew the real reason was that his fluids were depleted. He had been awoken every night this week and couldn't get back to sleep until the crying stopped.

Former Spectre candidate, high ranking official with the Alliance, celebrated war hero – none of it kept him from feeling the effects of fears . . . and tears. He hated to admit this condition, so he made up the story in his mind. It was easier than facing his personal truth.

He tested them and they opened. Now he could rub out the crystalline formations that made blinking uncomfortable as he stood and walked to the bathroom. He filled a glass from the sink and refreshed his throat with purified water.

As the glass descended, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He looked old. He felt older. "Damn nightmares," he uttered under his breath.

He rinsed the glass out placed it back in its place. The correlation was unpleasant.

He too had been put in his place: A nightmare. For two years, he had fought a different battle than he ever imagined he would be fighting. Politics. His true home was aboard a command ship, strategizing battles and issuing orders to men and women who had a dedicated path to serve humanity and the interests of Earth. Here, everyone was out to save their own skins. The Citadel Council owed humanity their lives, yet their gift in return was to allow one of them to join so they could out-vote and overrule every sanction and proposition he put forth. These whiny, sniveling weasels in the Citadel were only as dedicated as the benefits they could reap from the trumped up bills they-

…He shouldn't have thought of that word.

Visions of the nightmare flooded back into his mind. Blue zombies, abominations of technology, Saren…

He shook his head. He caught his eye in the mirror again and noted his expression of terror. "Just a dream," he muttered with a shaking voice. But he knew he was just kidding himself again. He was living the nightmare. He knew it was real. He didn't know where or when, but they were out there. Someday they would act. And on that day, everyone would die. Apocalypse.

And what was the Council doing? Nothing. And though he tried with all his influence and diplomacy, he had failed to motivate them to take the one path that might save them all. He had failed. Nothing was being done. Taxes, permits, audiences, none of these things mattered when it all came to the end. And the end was coming. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

The tears welled up again. He couldn't stop those either. These years had sapped something in him. He was a man of action – and here he was, stationary, unable to take any action at all, and especially not the most important actions.

Who was he kidding? He was no better than the other members of the council. A coward, afraid to face his own bed at night. Trapped in his reality that no one would believe.

He began to sob as his head went back into his hands.


	7. Chapter 7: From Lifeless to Solus

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series. **

**Warning: Gratuitous violence and other fun.**

* * *

><p>Chapter 7: From Lifeless to Solus<p>

The trio passed through the entryway to the clinic, strategically located in the slums of Omega. The reception they got was proof that they should never allow misfits like the vorcha access to firearms. Shots ricocheted off pillars, benches, walls, floors and ceilings, and anywhere else that a deplorable aim and a scattershot muzzle would take it. Vorcha had no subtlety in combat, they didn't even try to aim – they saw shotguns in half and strap on flamethrowers, then start pulling the trigger. This made them hard to handle in a shoot out. And not only were the vorcha tough opponents to fight against, their rate of recovery was a burden as their bullet holes closed only moments after the wound was made.

Fighting vorcha and krogan were always a difficulty because of their rapid regenerative abilities, which is why Commander Shepard carries a sniper rifle. One quick, decisive shot and it's over. She kept this in mind as she aimed her pistol at a vorcha who thought he was hiding well under cover. No matter how many times she shot him, he seemed to think his position was safe and stayed down, looking across the floor for his assailant rather than up on the balcony. She was aiming for the eye. She could easily have selected which side of the iris to shoot for with the sniper rifle, but she wasn't completely interested in downing a null opponent that she could use for target practice with impunity.

"Shepard," Miranda sounded over the comm. unit, "What are you doing? We've got him pinned down, just take him out."

"Damn!" Shepard exclaimed, "Shoulder again." She lined up her next shot, carefully familiarizing herself with the balance of the weapon. "Damn! Well, he won't be calling for help until his voice box grows back anyway." She took aim again, and it might have been true but the rat-like beast started floating in the air at the moment she fired and hit its collar bone instead, flipping it backwards against its center of mass. Two more rounds plowed into it from below as Miranda took advantage of the now-visible enemy.

"Gravity is one mean mother, huh?" Jacob has used his biotics on the disgusting little wretch.

Shepard tried to find another good target to practice on, but two krogan emerged from the back flanked by more vorcha and some of their hounds. She pulled a sour face and holstered her pistol, reaching instead for her sniper rifle. Vorcha were a nuisance, krogan were a problem.

As she expected, the performance of the rifle was disappointing. Accurate, but disappointing. It got the job done, but it just didn't feel like it should have. Still, there were a few less krogan on Omega now.

She messaged her gun arm as she stepped into the back of the clinic flanked by Jacob and Miranda looking for a salarian in a lab coat. Oddly enough, there was one such person back there. A grimy little chop shop, the place more like a loading dock that a clinic. Definitely not sterile, no safeguards whatsoever to prevent contamination, datapads instead of laboratory equipment. The salarian worked over one of the tables mumbling formulaic musings at a frantic pace.

Shepard stepped into the doorway with her entourage flanking her and regarded the salarian, "Professor Solus?"

He moved directly up to her and waved his omnitool across her path without saying a word. Then he studied the results for part of a second, leaving the three of them hanging in a vacuum of antisocial indifference.

"Hmm," he said finally, looking up at Shepard, "Don't recognize you from area; too well-armed to be refugees; no mercenary uniform; quarantine still in effect." These words came out in the same amount of time that normal folk say 'How do you do, a pleasure to meet you.'

He turned to work on one of the many datapads in the room, "Here for something else; vorcha? Crew to clean them out? Unlikely; vorcha a symptom, not a cause." It was like he was on fast-forward, but there was no recorder – he was live. "The plague?" he exclaimed, "Investigating possible use as bio-weapon? No; too many guns, not enough data equipment; soldiers, not scientists." He worked some more calculations into another datapad, "Yes, yes!" he turned again, moving to another bench to manipulate the chemicals, "Hired guns, maybe? Looking for someone? Yes! But who? Someone important; valuable; someone with secrets. Someone like-"

"You!" Shepard spoke over Mordin's ramblings, causing him to jump slightly and look up at her again. "I'm Commander Shepard. I'm assembling a team for a critical mission and I need your help."

"Mission? What mission? No; too busy," he never skipped a beat, pulling Shepard's comments seamlessly into his own external dialogue, "Clinic understaffed; plague spreading too fast. Who sent you?" The last words came from under one of the work benches where he had stooped to work with more materials.

Other members of the medical staff were hovering about; busy, no doubt, but naturally listening to what goes on around them. It would be poor practice to let out too much information. Not any more than anyone needed to know. "It's a privately funded human operational group," she mentioned nonchalantly, "Interested in the preservation of humanity."

"Related to plague?" Mordin stood suddenly, "Plague doesn't affect humans; human-centric interest; few human groups would know me." He turned and walked to one of the data terminals, "Equipment suggests military origin; not Alliance standard; Spectres? Not human. Terra Firma too unstable; only one option." He stepped forward to her again and stated plainly, "Cerberus sent you." He sniffed and creased his brow, "Unexpected."

"Well, look at you," Shepard commented, impressed, "How do you know anything about Cerberus?"

"Crossed paths on occasion. Thought they only worked with humans."

"We're assembling a team to confront the Collectors."

"Collectors? Interesting. Plague hitting these slums is engineered; Collectors one of few groups with technology to design it; our goals may be similar."

"But, must stop plague first." He proclaimed, "Already have a cure; need to distribute it at environmental control center; vorcha guarding it." He sniffed, "Need to kill them."

"Do you have any idea of how many?" Shepard questioned, "And are they with krogan, like we've seen-?"

A sudden silence issued from the ceiling. The constant hum from the air ducts was never noticeable in the background until it was gone. A white noise that masked the silence. Most humans, and other races as well, felt more at ease when there was a constant background hum that they could ignore. But now, the quiet was deafening.

Jacob looked up, "What the hell was that?"

Professor Solus glanced around, appraising the situation, "Vorcha have shut down environmental systems; trying to kill everyone; need to get power back on before district suffocates."

He thrust a pack into Shepard's arms. "Here, take plague cure; also, bonus in good faith; weapon from dead blue suns mercs; may come in handy against vorcha; one more thing; Daniel; one of my assistants; went into vorcha territory; looking for victims." He made an uncharacteristic pause, and sniffed deeply again, "Hasn't come back."

"We'll keep an eye open for him," Shepard assured him.

"Thank you; told him not to go; but, he's smart; bright future," he paused slightly, "I hope."

"We found a batarian who wasn't looking too good near the entrance to the district," she mentioned, "can you spare someone to help him make it to the clinic?"

Mordin put a hand up to his chin in thought, "Hmmm, risky; Blue Suns:Vorcha; still battling; district not secure," he ended with his appraisal, "See what I can do."

"Has the battle worked its way into the clinic at all," Shepard asked as she examined the pistol the salarian had handed her, "It's like a war zone out there."

"Nothing major; Blue Suns came for humans; made threats; killed them before things escalated," he spoke off-handedly, as though a physician regularly gunned down armed bands of thugs.

"Is that your usual diagnosis for mercenary groups who come to you clinic?" she smirked, "Should I have made an appointment?"

"Wasn't always a doctor; some work with salarian's Special Tasks Group," he pulled out his own pistol and examined it in kind. It had seen a lot of use. "Can handle myself." He glanced up from his weapon with a bit of a grin on his over-wide mouth, "Advantage of being salarian; turians, krogan, vorcha all obvious threats," he breathed in with pride, "Never see me coming."

They made their way out of the clinic through the other side, entering hostile territory once again. They proceeded down deserted corridors quickly but carefully.

She found she had a liking to the salarian doctor. He talked very much like she thought, except it took him longer to get to the same conclusions as he had to voice his opinion before he could determine its value. The benefit that Mordin had was that others couldn't think effectively while he was distracting them so effectively with his self-talk. But now that they were in the quiet of the slums, she could put more together.

The Collectors were engineering a plague that didn't affect humans? Well, of course, that made perfect sense. Eradicate the surrounding races, leaving the humans unscathed. Then send in their seeker swarms and collect their prize. Very effective. Too effective, in fact.

She began running scenarios in her head that only paused when an angry vorcha stepped forward with a growl.

"You no come here!" Charming. "We shut down machines, break fans." High school dates started echoing in her memories. "Everyone choke and die," except these rat people were more sophisticated. "Then Collectors make us strong!"

That was all she needed to hear.

These vermin-ridden sores of existence were not worth the time it would take to gun them down. Yet . . .

One of the things that make an N7 what he or she is leaves a large gap to allow themselves to be surprised at the redemption any race can show at any time. She had to give them the chance.

"You're just being used by the Collectors. Once they get what they need, they'll stab you in the back," she reasoned, pistol out, "Helping you become strong is not on the list of things they want to do."

The yellowish little beast hissed at them, definitely more charisma than some of her suitors. "Collectors want plague!" Oblivious. "You work for doctor!" A complete waste of bullets. "Turn on machines," it continued as Shepard lined up a shot, "Put cure in air!" At least it had some rudimentary idea of what was going on, she gave it credit for that. "We kill you first-"

Eye shot. Clean and easy. The vorcha spun around twice from the angle of the hit and the convulsive motion of its reflexes, off-balance, it came to a landing in a heap on the floor. The regeneration would kick in for a few minutes, but a brain-case hit was always death for a vorcha.

The fire-fight began. Shepard and her team moved steadily from cover to cover, making their way to the controls. All the while, Shepard's mental machine was filling in the pieces to the puzzle.

The Collector's were definitely involved then, the grubby little dead thing on the floor confirmed that. So the plague was a way they could harvest Omega for its human population.

"Two more on the left," Miranda warned.

Jennifer charged and released an incendiary pulse from her omnitool at one, gunning the other in several places along its left side.

And although the human population on Omega was not a majority, with an overall population of 7.8 million sentient persons, the harvest the Collectors would reap here would be bountiful indeed.

Miranda called out again, "Krogan charging!"

But Shepard had sighted the vorcha with a flamer unit on the other side of the hall. She put four shots into his midsection when the tanks behind it ruptured and started spewing gas fumes to the side. She took cover as the fumes ignited on the flamers nozzle and the vorcha burned to a cinder. But from the side of her vision she saw that one of the krogan had charged Jacob and had him pinned down. It would no doubt raise its shotgun for a shot at point blank range – enough to cut Jacob in half. But the other krogan was advancing on her position, using its shotgun for suppression fire until it could get into close range.

She spun out to the side of her cover, crouched at floor level. She fired the whole clip into the krogan's ankle, giving Jacob the time he needed to use a biotic Pull to launch the krogan out of control into the air and push it away. The floating krogan blocked the other's advance and forced it to hold fire. A new clip in place, Shepard rose from cover and threw another incendiary charge at the blocked krogan, followed by five shots to the face.

This was an excellent pistol. Very well balanced and with a good level of firepower for its size. She was a bit more accurate with this one than with its predecessor, but it seemed to be twice as effective due to its build. Mercs had a tendency to slash away at legality specs and go for usefulness when it came to pistol weaponry. This one was mostly along those lines – except that it had two sets of sights. Obviously made for a batarian, this weapon could have been much better in its design.

But now was a time for sniper rifles. Missiliers were moving to positions on the balconies. They had to be taken out before they pinned her team down. Her marksmanship was still nowhere near her former capacity, but a few shots were all it took to bring vermin down. The first shot hit the side of the vorcha's skull when his buddy fired his first rocket towards them. Shepard was lining up the second when Miranda called out again.

"Shepard, we've got vorcha with rocket launchers on the balcony," another couple of shots and the second was down, "We need to take them out before they pin us down."

The third went down in one shot. "I'm on them," Shepard ensured her. The fourth took three but went down just the same. "Switch the controls on and administer the cure to the system."

They continued their battle around the enviro-control room, sniping rocketeers, burning vorcha and halting krogan charges. Miranda seemed more reserved for the rest of the combat, allowing Jacob to take up more of the charge, which he did well. Especially satisfying was when the missile launching scum had a nasty crossfire keeping both Shepard and Miranda stationary while three krogan moved up. He tossed one vorcha into the air, and took out another with his pistol, allowing Miranda to use her own biotics on the closest of the krogan. Shepard had retired the sniper rifle for the moment in favor of the grenade launcher, which was excellent for lobbing an explosive round over the balcony, clearing it of vermin, and another to throw off the krogan threat.

The cure was efficient and direct. They couldn't see any appreciable results on the patients in the clinic as they walked back through the throng, but the air did seem to smell slightly cleaner – or perhaps that was their collective imaginations.

It wasn't long before they were heading to the Normandy for debriefing with their newest member, Professor Mordin Solus.

"Welcome to the Normandy professor, Jacob said warmly, "It's an honor to have you on board."

Mordin paced within the briefing room, examining every angle, "Yes; very exciting; Cerberus working with aliens; unexpected; Illusive man branching out, maybe? Not so human-centric?"

"Oh, so you know about Lu as well?" Shepard crossed her arms in amusement. Mordin halted, looking at her quizzically. She elaborated, "My little pet name for the Illusive man. I take it you have looked as far into who he is as you are able?"

Mordin dropped his questioning look and resumed pacing, "Salarian government well connected; espionage experts; had top level clearance once; retired now; still hear things; informed of name only; no knowledge of man behind it," he paused for his characteristic sniff, "Anti-alien reputation listed as: problematic."

"You do know him then," she made no mystery of her feelings about their "employer." "Well, everything you've heard is probably true," she assured him, "along with a lot of other stuff that we don't know about him," she put her hands on her hips and looked to the holo-table, showing a scale representation of the Normandy floating above the surface in a grid frame image. "But he's funding this mission, so he's got a stake in it and a reason to know about our progress." She nodded to Jacob to take it from there.

He regarded Mordin, "The Collectors are abducting human colonist out on the fringes of terminus space."

The salarian's hand went up to his chin again, his elbow cupped by his other hand, as he started his thought process once more, "Hmmm, not simple abductions; wouldn't need me for simple."

"Entire colonies disappear without a trace," Jacob continued, "No distress signals are sent out, there are no signs of any kind of attack, there's virtually no evidence that anything unusual had happened at all…except that every man, woman, and child is gone."

Mordin increased his pacing, "Gas? Maybe? No, spreads too slow; airborne virus? No, slower than gas; drugged water supply? No, effects not simultaneous," His intellect was apparently engaging into the matter fully and it was clear he was enjoying the challenge, "Intriguing; fascinating; no distress calls? No sign of resistance? New technology; marvelously advanced; but what?"

"We actually know the mechanism the Collectors are using to pacify entire colonies of people," Shepard said, amused, "You just took off too quickly for us to mention it." She touched a control and the holo-image shifted to a small insect-like object, hovering above the table in a grid of orange light. "We've been calling them seeker-swarms, they have some kind of paralyzing function that renders humans unable to move," she turned to Mordin fully, "we need a counter-measure if we're going to have any chance at all of defeating the Collectors. That's why we came to find you first."

Mordin was staring intently at the light-bug as it went through its motion routine, clearly fascinated.

"In our investigation we managed to pull some data samples from surveillance footage from one of the sites. Can you find a counter-measure from these samples?"

"Fascinating; appears to be fusion between synthetic and organic, developed specifically for sole purpose of subduing civic center for abductions; remarkable." He stared at the image. "Quadruped! Not insectoid, more efficient, less need for tactile stability with tiny mass effect field in place for flight and motion; small proboscis though, presumes more needed in swarm to immobilize prey, but small risk of eluding capture as long as swarm works as one unit over population center; multiplexated eyes suggests-"

"Professor?"

"Hmm?" Mordin jerked out of his entranced state to look at Shepard.

"Will you be able to use these samples to analyze a defense?"

"Yes, of course, analyze the samples," he stared moving toward the door uncertainly, "Going to need a lab."

The voice of EDI entered the room through the comm. systems again, "There's a fully equipped lab on the combat deck professor Solus," the salarian started glancing around for the source of the voice, "If you find anything lacking please place a requisition order."

"Who's that? Pilot? No, synthesized voice; simulated emotional inflection; could it be- ? No; maybe; have to ask; Is that an AI?"

Shepard forced a chuckle down into her chest where it couldn't surface. Trying not to laugh she confirmed this for the doctor, "Yes, the Normandy has been outfitted with an AI to help us on our mission. I think we'll need it, too."

"An AI on board, non-human crew members- Cerberus more desperate than I thought," Mordin postulated aloud.

"The Collectors have taken tens of thousands of colonists," Jacob reminded the professor, "We'll do whatever we have to do to find and stop them."

"Yes, of course, can't risk being captured like colonists; need to identify, neutralize technology; need samples," Mordin was back on target now, "Which way to the lab?"

"Follow me professor," Jacob escorted him out of the room and toward the science lab that Shepard couldn't access before.

The doors closed and she steadied herself on the edge of the table. She was the only one left in the briefing room now, and she had been struggling to stay composed since just before they had returned to the ship.

She should have gone back out for this Archangel sniper that was also in Omega, according to the dossier. But she knew she would need to handle herself first. The nausea had become worse since the return to Mordin's clinic. She thought about asking the doctor about it while she was there, but she knew what the problem was. The medigel mass in her stomach was beginning to shift under the manipulation of stomach acids that were now identifying the substance as something other than food. She was afraid this might happen, but there was nothing for it. She would just proceed to Dr Chakwas and let her know there was trouble.

She regained her composure and moved to the door. As she was stepping out, she could see the receding form of Jacob Taylor entering the armory as the doors slid shut behind him. She had to pass through either the armory or the lab to get out to the combat deck from where she was, and she did not fancy the thought of walking passed Jacob at the moment. She turned to go through the lab instead.

She strode through the hatch to see Mordin going through inventory of what was available to him. He glanced up as she entered, but resumed his inspection right away. His attention was completely engaged on this new toy. His task was challenging, and all the latest in technology was at his bidding, she had no doubt that he would not be hard to keep happy.

As she was exiting, another wave of nausea washed over her forcing her to grab the hatchway wall for support. She steadied herself as the turmoil passed and heard Mordin's rapid fire voice from behind.

"Shepard? Feeling alright? Noticed discomfort in posture during debrief; could be side-effect of medi-gel," one of his eyes squinted, "Seemed odd when reading first confirmed."

She turned to face him, "What? How did you know about the medi-gel?"

Mordin held up his left arm and the holographic tool flashed into sight. "Readings from omnitool; scan in clinic on Omega," he pointed at his own nose (or where his nose should have been), "Thought it odd when scan was complete, but kept it confidential. Thought might be some service field test, chemical sustenance pack; Cerberus initiative most likely; good for long term service in field; don't see much use in civilized areas; plenty of food; unless fear of poisoning or drug-induced interrogation." Mordin shrugged, "But no time to study further; clinic overflowing; air cut off in sector; awaiting Daniel's return; and your mission; put it on "back burner" as humans say; still was interested in getting sample; unusual composition; may I ask the purpose of the implant?"

His speed was dizzying, and that wasn't a good thing considering the way her stomach was feeling.

"It was a long-term convalescence decision," she confessed, telling him as much as she had figured out, "I wasn't meant to awaken from reconstruction as soon as I did."

"Ah! Ingenious!" Mordin complimented. "But premature awakening could have the effect of nauseating system as solid biosynthetic mass not known to process well through digestive system; common "rookie" error; typical of interns and poorly trained specialists in other fields; would have supplemented with dilated secretion bio-gnostic compound set for time-release as adrenal activity increases; though understandable omission if treatment is experimental."

She steadied herself on the door frame again as she felt another wave approach. "Yeah," she said simply.

"Thought as much; human diversity excellent for test subjects; know much of human anatomy; required for xeno-biological work and study of any alien physiology," he said as he rose his omnitool and fiddle with the controls, "Can reset medi-gel function using omnitool; no complication; very efficient; need omnitool to control medi-gel application anyway; skilled user can re-purpose application like so…"

She felt the mass in her stomach suddenly move with fluidity – too suddenly. The shock of the solid mass turning into a liquid to her untrained stomach muscles caused a convulsion that expelled the majority of the gel outward . . . violently.

She vomited what seemed to be about a half a liter of slimy blue-ish gel all over Mordin, then doubled over to expel whatever was left.

She was caught in the throes of uncontrollable heaving sensations for another half-minute before she was able to regain control of herself enough to cease the reaction.

"Er, yes" Mordin spoke from above her while blue slime dripped from half his face, and most of his front, "Did ask for sample, I suppose; would have been more useful in container though; still, appreciate the gesture." He propped her up at length and used towels to help clean up her front, which she waved away, modestly.

"Thanks, M-Mordin," she stammered, trying to keep her stomach muscles in line. "I'll t-take it from here."

* * *

><p>T'Loak and Stagger<p>

The asari matriarch offered Shepard a seat which she took gratefully.

Aria pondered for a moment, "What do you need?"

"I'm looking for Archangel."

Aria scoffed, "You and half of Omega," she said cynically, "You want him dead too?"

"Not yet," Shepard raised an eyebrow, "Why? What does half of Omega want with him?"

"He thinks he's fighting on the side of good," the asari smirked, "There is no good side to Omega. Everything he does pisses someone off."

Shepard sighed deeply, "Finally, someone I can work with."

"Really?" Aria smirked again, "Well, aren't you interesting?"

Straight-faced, Shepard stated blankly, "I think we both know the answer to that."

Aria advised sagely, "You're going to make some enemies teaming up with Archangel."

"They can just wait in line like all the others," Shepard dismissed as she had the amusing imagery of a gang of thugs waiting nervously in line just ahead of a reaper, "Just tell me where I can find him."

"Assuming you can get to him," she warned, "the local merc groups have joined forces to take him down. To get to him first, you'll have to fight your way through," she looked away again, "then fight back through them to get him out. And there are plenty these days since they've been hiring anybody with a gun to help take him out." She gestured over her shoulder to the densely packed dance floor, "They've even got a recruitment station set up here in Afterlife."

Shepard casually rose to her feet, less wobbly than before, "Well that's settled then. Thanks for the intel," she winked at the asari, "Here's a tip, invest in hazmat cleaning crews. Need anything while I'm wading through merc bands?" she quipped, "Something I can get for you? Change of clothes for your bodyguards? Mass knuckles? Smelly krogan sailor? No? Oh well. Maybe I'll come back to see you when they're out of mercs." She moved to leave.

"Maybe I'll be here." The asari sat still, only her eyes moving as the humans stepped away and down the stairs. She waited until they were well on their way into the crowd before motioning her lieutenant to her.

"Did she seem a little pale to you?" she asked nonchalantly.

The batarian shrugged, "They all look the same to me," he confessed.

Her eyes narrowed, "But you say the quarantine zone reports all quiet now," her eyebrow raised, moving the facial tattoo in an odd manner, "and the local clinic has claimed a cure has been found."

"That's the word on the street."

She frowned slightly, "And what about actual information? What am I paying you for?"

The batarian scampered away, leaving the matriarch in her perch above the floor of her club. She glanced at the floor to see the trio huddled in a close-knit group, gesturing toward the Blue Suns recruiters in the private room off the floor.

She found she just couldn't help liking Shepard. The tough act was a front, everybody knew Shepard was an exemplary Alliance N7 elite marine of the highest caliber and would never stoop to behaving like the underworld scum she was pretending to be like. But the gesture was nice. It was a way of letting her know she wasn't here to start trouble. At least not with Aria.

The Blue Suns had already found a mess of trouble out of her, and Aria knew if Shepard wanted to, this barroom would be a shooting gallery. Even with the bodyguards she had amassed around her "throne room" she would be in serious trouble if the marine decided to start shooting.

This was why Aria put so much resource into information. Knowledge, indeed, was power. If it turned out that Shepard one day was coming to her club with mayhem in mind, she would make it a point to not be here. A spot at the top of the floor was replaceable, her head was not.

But that didn't mean that the woman was infallible. A quick mention to the right people in the right places, a nod and a wink in the proper channels, a few hundred-thousand credits in the right pocket, and it would be Shepard on the run. As well-trained and formidable as she was, even Shepard would have to tip her hat to certain political tactics. Tactics which Aria made it a point to possess.

Shepard did look pale. Pale and weak. Perhaps something was working against her biologically. She would have to get the intel for that – whatever it might be. The Shadow Broker would pay well for that kind of information. Such a great, imposing force for humanity, groveling for some offering at the bar like a street urchin, what a picture that displayed.


	8. Chapter 8: Under the Gun

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series, and I'm a little annoyed about that, come to mention it.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 8: Under the Gun<span>

"Those aren't peanuts, Shepard," Miranda just managed to stop her from stuffing her face with a fist full of what she honestly thought were peanuts, "They put those on the bar for turians and quarians."

She glanced at the handful of small, spiky objects and cast them carelessly back into the bowl, scanning the bar for something she could consume.

Jacob looked at her with concern, "I thought we were waiting for the line of mercs to thin before joining up to hunt down this Archangel."

Shepard found another bowl and reached for it, "Yeah, that's the plan," she commented, distracted.

"Well, the line is a lot shorter," Jacob noted.

She looked up from the empty bowl, disappointed with its lack of substantial contents. They both had looks of concern.

Miranda shifted in her stance, "I thought you were to be on a strict diet after the sustenance mass in your stomach had dissipated."

"I'm starving!" she confessed. "That mass was expelled when Mordin found the results of that scan he did in his clinic." She stepped forward, heading for the merc recruiter. "I feel like I haven't eaten in two years."

"You haven't," Miranda confirmed, "But I don't think bar food is a good replenishing agent for a recovery from medical rejuvenation."

"You're right," Shepard surrendered to her logic as she started forward toward the line of mercs, "I'll just choose something mild and soothing from the smorgasbord of choices before me."

Miranda smirked as she followed, "Point taken."

"We can get Rupert to cook you up something once we've secured Archangel," Jacob assured her.

"Jacob!" she said in mock shock, "I thought you liked me." There were rumors all over the ship about Sergeant Gardner's questionable skill at fine cuisine.

Jacob glanced at her in surprise, then smiled at Shepard's expression, showing him that she was kidding with him, "He's not that bad," an attempt at repairing their mess hall sergeant's reputation, "He can make a mean soufflé when he wants to. And his chicken pot pies are chock full of veggies and tender chicken chunks, just the way I like 'em. He's not the greatest cook in the world, but he does a fine job."

"Don't kid yourself," Miranda added, "His foie gras is hideous."

"Please," Shepard spoke over them both, "Do mention all sorts of other delicious foods. My imagination is far too preoccupied with the mundane task of planning what to say to a merc recruiter to visualize what could be melting in my mouth this very moment."

Jacob smiled again, "Well, then I won't mention his triple layer brownie cheesecake a' la mode."

Shepard grimaced as she approached the batarian recruiter, "I hate you." But it did put her demeanor in perspective since they were supposed to be hardened mercenaries.

They approached as the merc in front of them was just finishing his interview by a batarian in a Blue Suns Mercenary uniform, "You'll get paid when the job's done, just like everyone else. Who's next?"

The trio stepped forward, Shepard front and center.

The recruiter's lower eyes continued to boringly survey the panel where he was entering the new set of information on them while the upper pair focused on Shepard, "Well," he started condescendingly, "Aren't you sweet?" Shepard made no reaction. "You're in the wrong place honey," he offered, "Strippers' quarters are that way."

Shepard raised an eyebrow, "You're looking at the wrong guns," she voiced nonplussed, "How can you be that short-sighted with that many eyes?"

The recruiter tilted his head to the side, unimpressed, "So you're here to fight then?"

Shepard's eyes narrowed. She knew the side which a batarian tilts their head indicates the level of respect they afford to the counterpart of the conversation, and that wasn't the right one. "Listen up quad," she was already perturbed with hunger, and this was as good a place as any to vent some steam, "I'm going to kill somebody today. Now is this the right place to sign up for Archangel, or should I just start shooting?"

"This is the place," the recruiter confirmed, a little cowed, "Standard fee is 500 credits each," he went back to typing in more data, "You get paid when the job's done. If you die, your friends don't collect your share. You'll need your own weapons and armor," he glanced up (focusing on the correct set of "guns"), "looks like you've got that covered. And no," he gestured with finality, "this does not make you a member of the Blue Suns, Eclipse, or the Blood Pack. You are a freelancer. Period." He returned to his data, "Any questions?"

In truth, she only had one question, what could this Archangel person have done to bring the three most controversial mercenary bands together against him? All three were professional, corporate organizations, despite the fact that they mainly engaged in sordid tactics, criminal strategies, and blatant piracy, for the most part. But at least the Blue Suns and Eclipse, almost always vying for superiority in the market, went to the trouble of trying to maintain their corporate image with legitimate protection services throughout space, the Blood Pack were outlawed from Citidel Space as they were well known as nothing more than a vicious vorcha gang of killers organized into a disciplined mob and hired out under krogan thugs. Most civilized people referred to their services as "professional murder," but only when they knew they could not be overheard by potential Blood Pack contacts.

This was still on her mind as she and the others passed a youth on his way in as they turned to leave.

"Hey, is this where I sign up?"

He looked like the picture on a training permit for driver's education. What facial hair he did have was more like hair than whiskers. He had the look of an angry son, about to do something he would never do, just to spite his parents.

"How did you even get in the door?" she responded to his question meant for the recruiter, "They don't order for delivery in this bar, do they?" She gestured at him, "You can't be older than 19."

He turned on her as though he were continuing an argument, "I'm old enough," he held himself in an offended pose, "I grew up on Omega. I know how to use a gun."

"So does Archangel," Jacob stated flatly.

"I can handle myself," the youth protested toward Jacob now. "Besides," he brandished a breakdown handgun, "I just spent 50 credits on this pistol, and I wanna use it!"

It was an old Elkoss Combine model pistol, broke down and refurbished to make it look useable. She could tell just by looking at it that it had a defective firing pin and a jury-rigged thermal clip bay. It would be a miracle if it didn't shatter at the first shot – although it was probably built to be tested a couple of times to fool the buyer. But there was a sure-fire way to tell for certain-

She reached out to grab the hand of the young man as he waved the weapon around casually. "Hey," he objected, "What are you-" With her other hand wrenched the barrel housing back toward the grip. The top part of the gun sheared completely off.

She backed off and tossed the useless gun-part to the kid as she turned to leave, "Get your money back."

* * *

><p><span>Through the Eye<span>

The view in the scope gently pivoted around, showing movement of forces behind barricades. Salarians, he could tell by the shoulders and the heart-rate readout from his eyepiece. Beside them a couple of batarians and a couple of humans. None were standard for Blue Suns, Blood Pack, or Eclipse. Simple hired guns.

He looked at the shelves around his blind and noted stacks of thermal clips, ready to go at a moment's notice. He had worked into a rhythm with them. Every bout that he endured found him picking up his used clips and setting them on a dish-rack he used to let them cool. When it looked like they were about to start another assault, he would dump the cooled clips back onto the piles on the shelves, ready for action.

If their tactic was to force him to run out of ammunition, they were, again, very sadly mistaken. He glanced around the room and saw several such stashes, clips of ammo, hand guns, sniper rifles, assault rifles, laying about the place, ready to be taken up and used to defend the posh, open-side apartments they had holed up in. The view of Omega was fantastic from this little bungalow, but he hadn't been interested in enjoying the holistic beauty of this wonderful spot amidst this horrible place. It was like a flower opening its pedals in the midst of a dung-heap. The smell was far too overpowering for him to enjoy the subtle fragrance of the plant.

He turned his attention back to the bridge that had held up against what seemed like endless waves of assaults. Only one way in, and, ironically, only one way out. Eventually, they would overwhelm his position. He actually thought they should have already done so by now, in fact. He was surprised he was still "fighting the good fight," as his idol used to say. They came close frequently, but superior tactics and a little bit of intelligence had kept him alive so far. He'd gotten lucky a couple of times. Hitting the stabilizers on that gunship was probably the best. It had lost trajectory and veered into the wall, damaging the fuel system, gun controls, and jammed the craft into a reverse drift, heading backwards with a slight turn as it went. With their biggest firepower out of commission, he only needed to lean against the wall under the windows, prop up his rifle, and wait it out.

He slept in micro-naps, slumping against his weapon, a thermal clip, dangling loosely in his hand, above a pot he turned upside down. He would rest his head against the scope, keep an eye out, and drift off to sleep, losing the grip on the clip and dropping it onto the pot, making a racket that woke him up again. It was no substitute for actual sleep, but it had kept him going for days.

It wouldn't last though. Eventually, he would either get caught with his guard down and be overwhelmed by gunfire or he would put a bullet into every single opponent left in Omega. And there never seemed to be an end to the scum of Omega. As long as their syndicates were in operation – even an indebted operation – there would always be some low life in this forsaken community who would accept pay for murder services. For every one that fell, two more took their place. He couldn't keep fighting them all off forever. He was going to die here.

But he didn't care. In fact, the only thing he really cared about right now was revenge; the payback for a betrayal. Not so long ago, he hadn't been alone here. His yearning to see justice put to this rabble of Omega was shared by a number of other people: people he had forged into a strong team. Under a dozen brave souls, putting fear into those who put fear into the normal citizens. It was a classic tale of the valiant standing against the villainous for the weak – the culmination of his life's work. And now they were gone. All because of him.

The tired mandibles tensed and he fought back the urge to step out of his blind and start shooting. The blood that burned in his skull wanted to find more of its own with a fire so intense that it was driving him mad. But, like it always does, a croaky voice echoed in his mind: "Savor your rage!" One of the last of his team to die had challenged him to make vengeance count in the old krogan way. Let the rage settle and gel until such time that the trigger is pulled. It was not a new concept, it had been suggested before . . . by another. One more wise than the krogan. One that knew just how to temper his lust for vengeance and turn it into something useful and respectable. His success at this stand-off had been in great part because he had blended the two: the way of his battlemaster friend, and that from his mentor, the one who saved him . . . and lost him again. Or was it he that had lost her.

No matter, he had no time for reflection. Regardless of the esoteric nuances, he would be dead in some small amount of time and he didn't care to fill that span with thoughts, but with violence. Every death that came from the muzzle of his gun was another hike to the price that they would pay for his death. And there was no question about it. He was going to die. He would fight them with every fiber of his being first. But when the end came, he was ready. He had already died inside, he just needed to seal the deal with a body count.

He glanced through the scope at the other side of the bridge. Figures were moving around, positioning for another attack. The head of a vorcha peaked over the barrier. Only a portion of the top-left corner of the vorcha's skull was exposed, enough for one eye to scan the bridge for tactics measure. The hammer fell as the trigger had been eased all the way back in a calculated manner. The vile thing launched from its perch and slid across the floor behind the barrier.

They would be ready for another charge soon. He reached for his helmet and fastened it securely, uttering the funereal vow, as he had done every time in this insane next-to-last stand. He was ready. His death would be forgotten easily in the streams of Omega's corrupt crime-ridden underbelly, but it would be remembered quickly enough when they looked at their phony ledgers and saw how far he had pushed them into the red. Payback was nigh.

He turned the dish rack of cooled clips into the pile at the balcony wall, ready for quick exchange. He checked his weapons and fastened all the armor checkpoints. He leveled the sniper rifle over the edge of the balcony with his eyes closed in a silent moment of rest, maybe his last, and opened his eyes to look through the scope at his new opposition.

The scope carefully scanned the walls and barricades, looking for his future assailants. They were mercs, careless ones, too. He could kill the whole crowd of them from here if he wanted to play bank-shots around the corners to get them, but he would wait anyway. He didn't want to make them too careful for the advance. Several humans, some turians, a few salarians. No krogans. Not a surprise since the Blood Pack had already sent waves of krogans in to flush him out and he'd decimated the force. Apparently, there were no more krogans available who weren't already part of the Blood Pack.

He continued to span the scope around to review the line up while thinking of which playlist he would select for this run. Probably the one that started with "Blue Azure," that had the best crescendo of striking combat music for a battle like this. They would send in the mercs to distract him while they tried their hand at some other ploy to get at him. He was surprised they hadn't tried the undertunnels yet. They probably thought that he had booby trapped them and it was exceedingly dangerous to go that way. They were right. But if they did plow their way through, he would have a real trial ahead of him as he would need to close three sets of blast doors to make sure they couldn't break-

He started at the movement of a human from around one of the rear barricades. A surge of familiarity that he never expected threw him off guard. He pulled his eye away from the scope, blinking. The readout must be faulty, he thought. They had fluctuated so oddly when this woman was in his sights. He looked again, scanning, waiting, and there she was, moving forward from the rear barricades. The red hair is what caught his eye. Most humans had a version of brown or blonde, with very few sporting the deep auburn locks . . . with an eyepiece over the sniping eye . . .

The feeling of familiarity almost shocked him out of his wits. He zoomed in closer – it just couldn't be! But it was! "Shepard?" The word escaped his mouth against his will.

He shook his head – he was imagining things. His former commander had died two years ago. The whole team had witnessed the break-up of the Normandy. Shepard was dead. This had to be some kind of a trick or- There she was again. There were odd scars on the face, but it looked just like her.

He snarled in hatred, "How dare they?" he grumbled. But how would they know? They all called him Archangel. If they had figured out who he really was, wouldn't they have… He dismissed the thought. Shepard was dead. Dead and gone, and never coming back. This imposter would be his first kill of the night. He let his eye glance to the console of his visor and selected the kill-timer. It would start with the first shot. Then he took aim, waiting for this imposter to cross his reticule again.

She had stepped off to the left side and had been there for a short time when she strode across the spans just behind the first barricade, cautious, but determined. He took aim on the side of her head and tensed against the trigger. His visor sent back an odd reading showing a low, steady heart rate. He paused – and in that split-second moment, his mind raced.

What if it was her? It couldn't be. But what if it was? She was dead, there's no possibility she could be here. Her heart rate is beyond calm – its' Shepard! It is just not possible! But what if it is? How could it be? How else – it's Shepard! It's some kind of trick. Ludicrous! It has to be. It couldn't be! Shepard is dead! Shepard is beyond death . . .

This last thought lingered well after she had already passed behind the other side of the barricade. His own heart rate started to climb. His breathing increased. If any one single person could defy death . . .

He was still skeptical, but he decided to wait it out and see what she would do. If it actually was Shepard, Omega might be losing part of itself to open space tonight. No one could imitate the after-effects of one of Shepard's "walk-throughs."

He did notice that she wasn't alone, though. But the two humans she was with he had never seen before. But . . . they did have biotics, his visor confirmed that. They weren't defensive barriers, but the biotic power was enough to register heavily on his heads up display. That was a Shepard trademark if there ever was one. Dynamic team capacities. But if it was Shepard, why wasn't she with anybody from the old team?

He snorted at his own question. They had shattered so far apart that the old Normandy crew never even had contact anymore. Maybe . . . maybe that's why she was here. Maybe she was coming to get him! No, he countered his hopeful thought. How would she even know he was here. Still . . .

He shook his head again. He was thinking too much. He would be caught off guard when they attacked. He couldn't afford that kind of distraction. If it was, indeed, Jennifer Shepard, he would know it almost immediately after the action started.

The figures started positioning themselves, ready to charge over the barrier. He tried to calm himself, he found that his hand was shaking. It was almost as if he'd "seen a ghost," that old human expression he never understood before now. Maybe he had just imagined it. He was tempted to play the scope recorder back, just to make sure.

They started to move. In waves, they jumped over the barricade and advanced on the apartment, shooting up at the balcony.

His scope snapped to one, then the other, the trigger singing in time with the rhythm of the rifle. He glanced with his other eye and saw the red-headed human soldier dropping to the base of the barricade. He suddenly had an impulse to drop behind the balcony. If it was Shepard, his head was in no way out of her range.

The "possible" drew her weapon. The threat was felt – he swiveled his weapon to focus on her. Shoot? He pulled the trigger, but had set it to concussive shot, a pacifying round. The shot hit her shoulder, throwing her sights off and forcing her to regain balance. She aimed – not up, but forward.

She was shooting the mercs! And so were her team-mates! The remaining shots in his clip went wild, missing their marks entirely.

"Damn!"

It took him the time to pop out the smoking clip and jam in a fresh, cool one to regain command of his shaking emotions. It may not have been Shepard but some kind of ruse meant to make him hesitate. But the counter-arguments still stood, imposingly, in the way of that logic. But in either case, the first wave would be much easier to dispatch now.

The three he had missed had been given the opportunity to take cover by his clumsy botched shots and now he had to pick them off from behind that cover. Three mercs made a rush for another position, closer to the apartment. Two of them fell to the ground with smoking holes in vital segments of their bodies. The third had taken up a position behind the support pylon and his heart was racing. He poised his shot, waiting for the fool to peek out from behind it to select another point of cover.

The door behind him opened and footsteps made their way into his den. He maintained his pose, waiting.

"Archangel?" The voice sent a shiver up his spine, but he remained still, waiting. He did lift a finger though, to show that he would be with them momentarily.

The merc wasn't used to fighting snipers, he wouldn't grow accustomed to the appropriate skills, either. His head appeared, tentatively, from around the post and was intimately introduced to his rifles' firepower.

The first wave had fallen, and in record time too, even with his misplaced shots. He placed the butt of his rifle on the ground and used it to regain his stance. His body ached from days upon days of non-stop exertion and every muscle he had was stiff and cranky.

He stepped to the side, took off his helmet and had a seat on an end table.

His old friend's eyes widened in surprise. It was her. There was no doubt.

"Shepard," he confirmed, "I thought you were dead."

"Garrus!" she stepped forward looking just as relieved to see him as he felt at seeing her. "What are you doing here?"

"Just keeping my skills sharp," he grinned, "A little target practice."

Her face took on a concerned look, "It looks like they put you through a couple of versions of hell," she took a step forward, "How are you holding up?"

He shrugged, "Been better, but it sure is good to see a friendly face." The next wave would be delayed, so there was no hurry. They probably did not expect their first wave to be dispatched so soon. So he had time to talk shop, "Killing mercs is hard work. Especially on my own."

She grinned again, "How did you manage to piss off every two bit criminal within a thousand light years of Omega?"

"It wasn't easy," he boasted, "I really had to work at it." He turned a bit to regard his enemies across the span, "I am amazed that they teamed up to fight me. They must really hate me."

"Well, I'm glad to see that your skill in diplomacy has remained as sharp as always," she grinned and glanced around, "And I love what you've done with the place, but we actually came to recruit you for a mission," she folder her arms, "I'll dismiss the rudeness of you engaging in a fire-fight when you have company to tend to, but I think escorting you out of here won't be nearly as easy as it was to get in."

"No, it won't," he replied, seriously, "That bridge has saved my life," he gestured over the balcony to the way they had come in as he rose from the table, some of his exhaustion now gone, "Funneling all those witless idiots into scope." He turned to regard the spans of avenue, "But it works both ways, they'll slaughter us if we try to get out that way."

One of her comrades now spoke up, "So we just sit here and wait for them to take us out?"

She had spoken the words with disdain. As though there were something inherently wrong with that plan. He rose to his own defense, "It's not all that bad," he turned back to the entryway, "This place has held them off so far. And with the three of you…" he turned back to them now, "I suggest we hold this location, wait for a crack in their defenses, and take our chances."

The potential death toll for his enemy had just risen dramatically, and he was all for using every bit of this opportunity to his best advantage. "It's not a perfect plan," he admitted, "But it's a plan."

Something of his inner turmoil must have shown, Shepard always had an acute eye for spotting inner turmoil in her teammates. He was surprised every time she had called out Wrex – he was never even aware that the krogan had any feeling for anything that didn't involve some form of violence, but Shepard saw it all.

She tilted her head at him, "How long have you been holding these cretins off? How did you get trapped in this corner in the first place?"

That look. That damned look of concern that he could feel all the way to his soul. But he had no time or space to express his predicament now. "My feelings got in the way of my better judgment," he dismissed, "It's a long story."

He looked up to see a more intense version of that stare. She wasn't one to back down easily about these things either. Her command style was rough and elegant at the same time, he had been swept up by it before, and he was right back in it now.

"I'll make you a deal," he bargained, "You get me out of here alive, and I'll tell you the whole damn thing."

Her look softened, "Well, that was the point in the first place," she mused, "You won't do anybody any good if you're dead now will you?" she paused briefly, "Except your dentist maybe." She gestured at her other two companions, "And they weren't prepared to fight four of us, so that should take them down a couple of notches."

"You're right," he agreed, "Their numbers won't help them in here, anyway." He looked forward to the bridge and noted some movement. "Let's see what they're up to…"

He stepped forward and glanced through the scope at his enemies. "Hmm," he lowered the scope, "Looks like they know their infiltration team failed." He held out the weapon to his former Commander for confirmation, "Take a look. Scouts," he commented as she steadied the weapon and peered out at the opposite side, "Eclipse, I think."

With the team dynamics altered, his mind went sailing into many different directions at once, searching out the best deployment and application of troops.

Shepard pulled her eye away from the scope and handed it back to him in an odd way. "Ehn," she dismissed, "It's just the wave of mechs they brought to swarm the place."

He glanced at her in confusion. Maybe it was the length of time they had been apart, but her body language didn't agree with the nonchalance of her comment.

The other two started to take up tactical positions, in cadre style. Each was a practiced veteran of combat. He crouched in one of his usual spots with a clean view of the bridge. And the droids came over the wall.

He wouldn't get quite the score on his kill meter this time, the payload was evenly spread between the four. The bots never stood a chance. Bullets and biotics hurled over the wall proved far too much for simple metal chasis and servos. But the YMIR was another matter. Eclipse had a tendency to outfit their YMIR mechs with more anti-personnel weaponry. He had hoped that he trashed the supply of mechs in Omega with a few recent raids he made. He started to check options.

Glancing at Shepard, he noticed a preoccupation, an annoyance that played across her features.

He voiced his observations on the comm. channel, "They're sending out the heavy mechs."

"That may not work out the way they wanted," she responded cryptically, showing a bit of a grin. He paused, quizzically, seeing the old familiar Shepard underneath the new scratched surface. She looked up at him, still grinning mischievously, "I think they'll find this unit has separation issues."

He heard the unit open fire, and shouts of alarm and death ensued on the bridge. He swung his weapon over the railing to continue the punishment that his opponents must take to find the mech gunning down its own people.

They added to the chorus of destruction, raining weapon fire down upon the Eclipse. The teamwork fell seamlessly into place, the four veterans each knowing what was required for survivability and conquest on the battlefield better than most.

It seemed luck had taken its turn for him this day. He saw Jareth, of the Eclipse, floating into the air, spinning wildly as his flesh was perforated with automatic weapons fire. The Blood Pack was reduced to a pulp, and Garm fell before his eyes as the team converged on him.

The turian was experiencing pleasure, a foreign emotion of late. Everything was falling into place so perfectly it seemed surreal. He checked his kill counter and it was the lowest had seen in days after three waves of assault. These fighters were good. Perhaps even good enough for them to make a break-

The sound of glass shattering shook the air as walls, furniture and turian armor were blasted apart by mounted rapid-fire shots coming from the windows. Cushions exploded in three or four consecutive places with the fluff that had been inside. Parts of the structure of the walls became visible as plaster and facade gave way to the destructive force of high caliber bullets. Hot pain wracked his body. Light and fire assailed his vision as Tarak's throaty vengeance filled the air. "You think you can screw with the Blue Suns?" His senses shut down. The rush of pain became his world.

He was disoriented. Blood flowed onto the floor of the apartment. Days flowed through the back of his mind. Faces flowed across his targeting reticule. Faces of the deceased; the betrayed. Shepard. All dead – just like him.

But this wasn't real; just another daydream. He would soon be dead, of that there was no doubt. But for now, his mind was just racing through his past. The nightmare that happened every time he closed his eyes. Shepard was gone, just like every member of his team. Floating away into oblivion, just like her. No matter how many headshots he fired, not a single one would bring them back. But at least he could see them, resting his eyes against his scope again.

The clip would fall from his hand any moment now and he would hear the clang of the metal and open his eyes. He only had to let it go. Relax and fade off into a moment of restful unawareness. Just let it go.

Muffled sounds of gunfire started getting clearer. Combat chatter became distinguishable amongst the echoes of battle.

"Another one down."

Just let it go. That's all that's left to be done. Let it _go_.

"Garrus!"

His eyes opened. The pain was not a dream. Not his dream. He wouldn't let it go. Not now. Not so long as he was needed. He'd never let any of them go. His grip tightened.

"Stay with me!"

He tried to reassure her, but words turned into a gurgling sound.

"Radio Joker, make sure he's ready for us."

"We better hurry," Jacob's deep voice bloomed from somewhere in the apartment, "He looks bad"

* * *

><p><span>Code Blue<span>

"Dr. Solus," the artificial voice caused the salarian to glance away from his model projections, "You are needed in the Medical Lab."

He started at the news. "Medical Lab? Thank you EDI." He strode from behind his studies and headed for the CIC.

"Dr. Chakwas ill?" he muttered as he ambled forward, "Possibly; old, feeble, losing position with Alliance sapped her will." He stroked his chin as he pondered, "Odd though, seemed such a strong woman; lust for life; enthusiastic; good specimen. Still, much stress; polyps, tumors, extraneous body rash? No, no – too mundane. Chakwas could treat any plain symptoms herself."

The portal opened and he turned toward the elevators. Yeoman Chambers turned from her control panel, "Hurry Professor, they need you."

"They?" He added this detail as he moved more deliberately to the elevator, "Multiple patients – battle trauma; severe lacerations, shrapnel; yes, yes!" "Down please," his voice changing to its softer side. "But wait," he said as the doors closed, "Requested my specialism, plague, perhaps? New strain; virus mutated; still active – now onboard Normandy! No!" he countered immediately, "Plague created by collectors specifically targeting non-humans; not a possibility." He began pacing in the small space of the lift, "Vorcha! Revenge for wiping out primary forces! No, vorcha have no planning capacity; Blue suns! Retaliatory strike; chemical warfare; possible, but not likely. Blue suns-thugs of mercenary origin. Shepard, trained N7 elite forces, human spectre. Blue Suns no match."

He continued pacing as the lift descended to the deck below. "Flu perhaps; epidemic on board Normandy? No– found no indications of illness upon boarding; invasive scanning detected no infectious diseases or conditions; though detected possible virus transmitted through varrens (intriguing, must investigate at some point; take samples)."

The doors slid open and he hurried around to the medical facility. A crowd was gathered around the entrance to the Medical Lab. Shepard was against the wall facing Jacob who was intently scrutinizing her. Miranda and Dr. Chakwas were hovering over the form of a turian with blast marks all over his armor and blue blood splattered all over.

"Ah," Mordin exclaimed as he made haste to the form of the turian, "A specimen – you wish me to autopsy the body. Excellent. Looks as though dead for quite some time; what was the expected cause of death?"

The turian suddenly gasped with a deep, bubbling sound, his limbs rising, seeking something to grasp. Mordin blinked in surprise, he had obviously misdiagnosed the condition.

"Garrus, try not to move," Dr. Chakwas was calming him, "I'm going to try to stabilize the bleeding before we move you."

"Professor," Miranda gestured him to the wall, "You need to help the Commander."

Mordin glanced at Shepard, seemingly alert and unblemished save for the scars of her reconstruction, then back to the apparently fatally wounded turian and blinked.

"Jacob," Miranda urged, "I need you to help me lift him."

As Taylor activated his biotics and moved to replace the doctor, who had just injected a sedative and was moving into the lab, Mordin moved to Shepard and did another scan with his omnitool. Her metabolism was hyper-accelerated, her breathing was quick and labored and-

"My stomach muscles have clamped down like they've turned to stone," she issued through clenched teeth, "I can't move. What's going on?"

Mordin studied the readouts on his omnitool, "Suffering shock from hunger; acute symptoms - very interesting," he blurted, "stomach starting to digest itself; trauma to surrounding tissue; no adjustment time from recuperation," he looked up into her face with curiosity, "You should be unconscious, very impressive."

She shot him a look of dismay, "Thanks."

He moved to support her right shoulder and started walking her stiff form toward the mess hall, in the center of the deck. "Cook," he called out to the mess sergeant watching it all with growing concern, "200 CC's of nutrient paste blended with mild oil and light spice."

"Huh?" Gardner blinked, "The paste is flash frozen," his slow, deliberate words a stark contrast to the rapid pace of the salarian's, " It'll take a good half-hour just to get it out from storage."

Mordin spoke with an authority that belied his features and mannerisms, "This woman is starving to death before your eyes, man! She needs nutrients, stat!"

Gardner nervously broke into action. Within a matter of minutes, a semi-warm platter of something greenish appeared on the mess hall table that Mordin, and several of the nearby crew members helped her unresponsive limbs to sit at.

"To your stations," Mordin commanded of the remaining off-duty personnel as though he had any sort of rank and with a response equivalent to the rank he held . . . they remained motionless, staring at the spectacle as though it were the crashing of a ship.

Meanwhile, Shepard stared down at the . . . whatever it was before her, unmoving. Her hands had a death-grip on the table at either side of her. Slight motions conveyed the attempts to get her limbs to respond with no success. She even tried to bend her face toward the plate as if to inhale it sans-utensil but her musculature was indeed locked tight.

Mordin seized the kitchenware and plunged it into the unrecognizable lumpish mass, lifting a fork-full to her mouth.

She devoured the substance only to expel it forcefully two and a half seconds later back to the plate after chewing furiously on it.

"Oh god!" She grimaced, sputtering at the taste that lingered in her mouth.

Mordin bent and sniffed once at the meal, only to recoil, waving his hand before his face to dissipate the odor. Both looked up in unison at the mess-hall sergeant with a questioning astonishment.

He stared back, helplessly, "Chef's surprise," he offered as a meek explanation.

Mordin frowned and pulled a small spray canister from his tunic. He passed his omnitool over it to configure the contents and aimed it into Shepard's open mouth, still trying to expel the horrid flavor of asparagus, cranberries, and tripe. She coughed a couple of times and looked up at him as if wounded.

"Wha-" but she couldn't adequately form the word.

"That should numb your taste buds for a few hours," Mordin said as he resumed feeding her the awful stuff.

Despite the experience, she truly was starving and wolfed the contents down ravenously with an expression that she would regret this in "a few hours."


	9. Chapter 9: My Favorite Store

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series.**

**Warning: Really harsh, immature language. (It's okay, it's just Zaeed.)**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 9: My Favorite Store on the Citadel<span>

"I agree," she found herself stating back in the Science Lab.

Miranda almost looked surprised – she probably was. She stormed in a moment ago with the resigned look of someone about to start a fight. Jennifer's response seemed to take the wind from her sails.

As if to back it up, Shepard expounded, "I can't seize up like that in the middle of a mission. And I can't have my crew wondering if I'm going to collapse of starvation at any moment." She raised her arm as Mordin passed the omnitool across her right side to check metabolic readings. "And since we don't have the right supplies on board, we'll have to go to the Citadel before we seek out any more members of the team."

Miranda uncrossed her arms finally, "Good," then she added, "I'm relieved actually. Your profile shows you have a tendency to be stubborn about taking the Spartan route. I thought this was going to be a battle of wills."

"Well, don't get too relaxed," the Commander cautioned, "Once these issues are resolved-"

"You'll follow your doctor's orders and take better care of yourself," Miranda broke in, as "mother hennish" as a woman like Miranda could be.

Jennifer stared at her for a few moments. Her arms had crossed again and her jaw was set. She wondered if this woman could handle the truth. Or was this even an appropriate moment for that truth? She decided it wasn't.

"I'm not going to starve to death," she responded truthfully, but not completely. She would see if Operative Lawson was as in-touch with the scenario as she seemed bright enough, and pragmatic enough, to be. The full truth was that she had already accepted the fate of forgoing survival. The reapers were not the kind of opponent that one simply defeats. Dietary concerns were a minimal point of interest. She only needed strength enough to do what needed to be done. Then she would expire, again, naturally.

Feeding now was an investment rather than ongoing maintenance. Perhaps this was that Spartan side she was just warned about. But she wasn't about to let a thing like biological needs get in her way. A plan formed at once.

"In fact," she nodded to Miranda, her arms still crossed, "I intend to resolve this issue once and for all."

The brunette unfolded her arms again, "Oh, really? How?"

"EDI," Sheppard spoke into the air, "Have Joker set a course for the Citadel, immediately."

"As you wish, Commander" EDI's voice responded.

She regarded Miranda again, "This ship was stocked with standard fare and rations. Is that standard protocol for a Cerberus vessel?"

Lawson frowned, "Yes," she responded naturally, "Every ship is outfitted this way"

"And what, about this ship, is standard?" She left the question hanging for only a moment. "Get together with Yeoman Chambers and devise a high yield dietary program for every member of this crew, including exercise and down time for relaxation cycles, meditation, recreation, or whatever each individual crew member needs."

The Cerberus agent placed a hand on her hip, "That kind of fare is going to cost a pretty-"

"Whatever it costs, and then some," Shepard broke in just as Miranda had a moment earlier, "If it needs to."

Miranda turned her head cautiously, "We do have a budget, Shepard."

She stared at the administrator for another moment, noting her hesitance. "Well, sorry Lu, we tried to defeat the Collectors, but we were on a budget." She threw her hands up in mock defeat, "We just ran out of money."

"All joking aside," Miranda countered, "Cerberus can't just invent money, these endeavors cost quite a bit."

"Assassination, plunder, counterfeit," Shepard counted on her fingers, "Oh, wait, scratch that last one."

"Very funny. So are you suggesting we start illegal pursuits to fund our ventures?"

"Miltast," Mordin said suddenly, his fingers working the console, processing his calculations, "Tender flesh; delicacy on salarian home world; cooked properly quite palatable to most races except quarians; they tend to bloat and die within hours; but filleted with a derene port," he kissed his fingers into the air, "exquisite."

The two women, watching his rapid-fire display of salarian cuisine, both turned back to each other in their discussion.

"Leave the funding for the crew supplies to me," Shepard assured, "Assemble the program."

"That sort of fare will cut the size of our foodstocks considerably," she continued to protest, "And the kind of food you are discussing won't last long."

"EDI," Shepard spoke suddenly, "What is the storage life of the current larders of the Normandy?"

"Approximately 5.2 months for the non-flashed pastes based on current expected crew compliment," the monotone voice chanted.

"It's not as simple as that," Miranda continued, "You forget, I'm used to running a facility, you're not."

Shepard hopped off the table, feeling much less dizzy than when she entered. "You're right, I'm not."

"The components of this ship are not made for that kind of-"

"EDI?" Shepard cut her off again, "Based on an upgraded fare of high quality, what is the expected storage life for the current expected crew? Nearest in weeks," she appended.

"Seven"

Jennifer moved right up to Miranda so they were face to face, not a foot apart. "Fortunately for me, we have a highly qualified staff and facility administrator on board this vessel." Each looked directly into the eyes of the other. "I want these men and women at their top performance. This is not a luxury liner, it in an elite training facility on the move. I want each person on this vessel totally prepared at any time for any thing. That includes me."

The moment of direction was all she needed to align. Miranda finally saw Shepard's vision and couldn't agree more, "I'll make preparations immediately, Commander."

"Thank you Miss Lawson," she turned to exit as Miranda moved with purpose toward the CIC.

She entered the debriefing room where Jacob was waiting to update her on Garrus' progress.

He assumed a salute as she entered, which she returned directly.

"You're looking much better," Jacob commented, "How do you feel?"

"Like I just got run over by a horse that I owed money to," she quipped.

"I won't lie," Taylor looked grim, "I was mighty worried there."

"It's just the typical things that happen when you're resurrected from the dead, I guess," she brushed the matter aside, but then addressed it in earnest, "But to tell you the truth, you weren't the only one."

"Do you know what happened?"

She sighed, "According to the professor, my stomach had rejected the medigel packing and once it was expelled, it kind of considered itself in starvation mode. It started eating away at whatever tissue was there, almost as if it didn't recognize itself as my own stomach."

Jacob whistled a low tone, "Sometimes I'm glad I just point and shoot."

"The strangest thing was," she confessed, "I didn't even know what was going on. One minute I was helping to drag Garrus into the Medical Lab and the next, I just stiffened up. I couldn't move."

"That must have been hell for you," Jacob mused. "You're always on the move. To have to just stop short like that . . . "

She shook her head, "It's not as strange to me as you might think." She regarded his raised eyebrow, "As a sniper, it pays off to tense and relax the whole body from time to time, especially when you're in a blind. In fact, it kind of felt like that, I just couldn't relax."

"At least Gardner got you fixed up."

Jennifer gave him a dark look, "Mordin got me fixed up," she corrected. "I'm sure Rupert is a nice enough guy, but," she shuddered slightly and thought about what it was going to be like in probably just less than an hour from now when her numbed taste buds resumed their grim messages to her brain. "That was not triple layer brownie cheesecake a' la mode."

He gave an apologetic shrug, "You just caught him at a bad time."

"That was the worst time to catch him at a bad time." She shook her head, "How is Garrus?"

Jacob's demeanor shifted; he hung his head. He did not begin to speak for a long interlude, during which he took several deep breaths, strengthening his resolve, "Commander," he started, "We've done what we could for him, but he took a bad hit."

She started to feel cold. If only she could have done something when he needed her most…

"The doc's corrected with surgical procedures and some cybernetics," he continued, but his tone spoke a different message to her. "Best we can tell, he'll have full functionality, but…"

But she had lost him. The weakness of her flesh had cost her one of her truest companions. And she was standing here in a conference room. She needed to go to him. Why was it that everything was going so wrong?

_There's nothing wrong with anything. Everything is just as it's supposed to be._

The door eased open, the turian strolling into the chamber, the blast still evident on his armor. "Shepard." He acknowledged.

A shiver went up her spine. The combination of the old friend she just though she had lost and the voice she heard when she was dead did something indescribable in that moment. But for the life of her (or perhaps both lives, so far) she couldn't even imagine what it was. There was something much grander playing itself out here. And this was just a glimpse of it.

Jacob chuckled in spite of himself, "Tough son of a bitch," he said, impressed, "Didn't think he'd even be up yet."

Garrus strode into the room, "Nobody would give me a mirror," he confessed, "How bad is it?"

Suddenly, they were back together again, and it was as if no time had passed. "Oh it would be much worse with a mirror," she harassed, "Then there would be even more of your face to see."

His mandible quivered as he stifled a chuckle, "Don't make me laugh, damn it," he tried to regain his control, "My face is barely holding together as it is."

Now poised, he moved languidly, "Some women find facial scars attractive," he suggested, "mind you, most of those women are krogan."

Now she held back her mirth.

Jacob, seeing that his report was finished, in the flesh, excused himself and left the room, Garrus' eyes following him out the door.

"Frankly," he started anew, "I'm more worried about you." He stared her down with a serious composure on his scarred face. "Cerberus, Shepard? You remember those sick experiments they were doing?"

"I was one of those sick experiments, my friend," she confessed. "They spent a world's worth of money to rejuvenate every cell of my body to bring me back from the dead – now I'm in as deep as I've ever had to be in enemy territory." She looked up at him grinning. "That's why I'm glad you're here, Garrus. I'm working with the enemy here. If I'm walking into hell, I want someone I trust at my side."

Garrus cocked his head to the side, "You realize this plan has me walking into hell, too?"

"That's part of the beauty of the plan," she spread her arms wide as if revealing a great blueprint, "two sets of tracks."

He did the turian version of a smirk, "Just like old times."

No – she thought. Nothing like them. She was beginning to realize more and more that there was something inherently different now. But she had to figure this whole thing out before she could talk about it.

"I'm fit for duty whenever you need me, Shepard," Garrus intoned as he turned to leave the briefing room, "I'll settle in and see what I can do at the forward batteries."

* * *

><p><span>Give it a Shot<span>

"I don't see what's wrong with it," Jacob turned the rifle over in his hands. "These are standard issue, but it's a fine weapon."

Kelly's voice filtered through the ship's systems as she communicated her concerns to the armory, "Shepard doesn't think so. She finds the M-92 Mantis model substandard to say the least."

"Well, what's she used to using?" Jacob asked defensively.

"Historicals show she used a Volkov from Rosenkov Materials before she became a Spectre," Kelly reported, "But, naturally she probably shifted to the Spectre line once she got access to the Citadel's resources."

Jacob, frowned, "A Volkov?"

"Does that mean something?" Kelly asked, showing her lack of knowledge of weaponry.

"Who buys a sniper rifle from an armor manufacturer?" he shrugged, "I always thought the Volkov lacked the impact power to do the trick." He swiveled the firearm around again, "but once they came out with the Mantis M-92, that was the hot item for all those stick-and-pick types."

"All I know is that the Mantis makes her uncomfortable," Kelly played out her hand, "And after what happened bringing Archangel in, she needs something to give her a boost of confidence."

Jacob made a face that clearly displayed his frustration and lack of understanding about the Commander's preferences, "Maybe it's the scope?" He thought out loud. "Alright, Kelly, I'm on it. If there's a way to make a sniper rifle sing her enemies to sleep better than what she can already do, I'll find it."

Kelly's bright voice transferred her contagious smile into the armory, "Thanks Jacob, I know she's really going to appreciate this."

He examined the weapon in great detail, took it apart and had all the parts scanned and analyzed on a molecular level. Then he started the microplant and began building mock-ups.

After several hours, he was no closer to a solution. Aside from slight differences, there was no real change in the performance of any of the standard models available for the day.

He paced the armory, trying to consider the matter more holistically.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with the statistics, maybe it was a personal choice. But Kelly made it out like she wanted this to be a surprise, and he couldn't get an idea of what Shepard really liked in a sniper rifle without asking her directly. Unless . . .

"EDI, can you patch me through to Garrus?"

"Opening a channel." EDI replied.

The turian's double voice burst into the room at normal volume, "What's up, Jacob?"

"You worked closely with Shepard," Jacob opened, "Do you know why she doesn't like the Mantis?"

"The M-92?" Garrus responded, knowingly. A sniper himself, Garrus was well familiar with them more than most. "The same reason any other sniper hates it," he stated matter-of-factly, "It sucks."

Sounds filtered in from the background where Garrus was touring the Citadel with Shepard.

"…freshly squeezed? It's not some reconstituted…"

"Well, what about it sucks?" Jacob started pacing again.

"Come on," he said as though Jacob should be as intimately familiar with the firearm as he was. "One round reset, the range was not made for an expert, and the trigger offs like a jackhammer."

". ..but for an extra 25 credits…"

"And the eyepiece to the scope is too narrow," he continued, "a good fit for most turians, but humans like to rest their brow on the scope, and quarians . . . forget it."

"…anything to take the taste out…"

"Well, I'm trying to put together a decent scope for Shepard, but we want it to be a surprise," Taylor conferred, "Can you help me out?"

"…additional supplies to the list..."

"Sure," Garrus showed interest immediately, "Let me step away from her, she's placing an order so she's pre-occupied."

"…another? I can still taste…"

Jacob went back to his design, "She used to like the Volkov, right?" he conjectured.

Garrus chuckled, "Yeah, that was before the Spectre vendor opened up," He reminisced with fondness, "Oh that advanced HMWSR, how she loved that scope . . . how I loved that scope."

"She got one for you too?"

"Benefits of working with a Spectre," Garrus boasted. "The was one classy rifle."

"What made it so good?"

"Well, the grip for one thing," Garrus conjectured, "Easy touch grip, form fitting and comfortable; made it a lot easier to line up the shot."

"And the sights?"

"The sights were fine, but Shepard's eyepiece gave her plenty of feedback," Garrus said dismissively, "These built-in readout scopes that you get these days are for amateurs. They'll get the job done, but they only calibrate the weapon to the target."

"What do you mean?" Jacob hadn't heard this before. All the sniper rifles he ever used had built in trackers, range finders, infrared, trajectory plotting; everything you could need. But it now occurred to him, Garrus and Shepard used eyepieces.

"To snipe at the level that Shepard shoots at, you need calibration between the moons and the stars," he stated figuratively, "heart rate of the target, temperature of the thermal clip, pulse of the shooter, air pressure pockets between shooter and target – everything is a factor." Garrus started to wax rhapsodic now, "As a sniper, you're trying to make a sliver of metal no bigger that the fang of a baby varren moving at half-past the speed of sound through the nostrils of a volus with a head cold."

Jacob grinned at the image.

"You can't do that with the daily forecast and a pair of knitting needles. Any differences between where you're shooting from and what you're trying to hit have a chance to send your shot astray."

Jacob was gaining an appreciation for the long range shootist. He knew that snipers had to be really good, but he had no idea they had to transcend this mortal world in order to get their shot off. "So, what you're telling me," Jacob summed up what he had just learned, "Is that her eyepiece does more for her than the scope readout ever could."

"Not entirely right," Garrus corrected, "the sights calibrate to the weapon. What an expert sniper really needs is a scope that will recognize the eye piece data stream and collaborate with it. That would make one unbelievable rifle."

Jacob scratched his chin thoughtfully, "Okay, there's my first challenge," he confirmed. "Now, what's the problem with a single shot? Isn't that the point?"

Garrus chuckled again, "I used to think so too," he confessed. "But Shepard uses a sniper rifle like most of us use a handgun."

"How so," Jacob moved to the microplant to start some mock-ups while he absorbed what Garrus had to tell him.

"When Shepard lines up a shot with the scope, it's like she's playing absorid."

Jacob paused, "Playing what?"

"Sorry," Garrus corrected, "It's a game played with a curved bat and several balls on a flat surface, it's like that game you humans play in bars – the one with the pockets for the balls to fall in."

"Pool?" Jacob assisted.

"That's it," Garrus confirmed, "Know the game?"

Jacob shrugged, "I've played a few." He was lying, of course, he played a lot of pool in his time. It was one of the pastimes in the alliance military. But you never admitted you played much, in case somebody wanted to put money down. Some things never change.

"Well, the principal is almost the same," Garrus continued. "Except in pool, the balls come out of play as you sink them. But the point is to line up your shot so that you are already in position for your next shot. Well, Shepard does that with her opponents."

Jacob paused again, this time out of astonishment. He got the gist of what Garrus was saying, expert pool players would be able to hit the queue ball so that it banked and bumped around the table to just the right place for the next shot to be just as easy to sink, but it was a bit much to imagine for a ranger on the field of battle, and he was about to tell him so, but Garrus continued.

"She already knows how the fight is going to go from the moment she knows there are enemies," he chuckled, "And she always knows there are enemies. She already has the layout in her head, knows who is going to take cover where and she's even considered how the kick-back from the rifle is going to change her aim. By the time the enemy is aware they're under fire, she's already won the fight."

Jacob opened his mouth to say something but was blocked by the memory of a heavy YMIR mech laying on the ground with a foot bent completely out of shape right at Shepard's feet – signed, sealed, and delivered. And the only thing she had to say about it was, "You just got to know how to talk to it."

"And if you really want to see a spectacle," Garrus boasted on, "Let them charge within assault rifle range."

Jacob pondered the thought for a moment with no success, but was distracted by another thought. "Do you shoot like that too?"

"No," the turian confessed mildly, "I've never been able to match Shepard with combat techniques. I'm strictly a long range shooter. If they get up close, all I can do is shoulder the sniper rifle and switch to ground assault like any other soldier. But I learned more from her about deploying forces in one tour than I've ever learned from an academy, C-Sec, or the Turian Corps."

"So how does she fend off charging opponents who close into assault range?" Jacob was fishing for more info. He was fascinated by this new style of commando tactics. He had thought he learned from the best, but he had to admit, the firefights he had been in recently with Shepard had impressed him as a battle field strategist.

"Well," Garrus painted the picture for him, "Normally, if your opponent charges within assault rifle range, any regular sniper will have to sling their rifle and pick up the smaller arms – you just can't draw a bead on an opponent who can fight back with rapid fire."

Jacob had to agree. That's how he had handled snipers in the past: try to stay moving and pin them down with suppression fire.

"Now imagine what it's like to charge up close to your quarry, an excellent sniper who's been picking off your buddies like they were bottles on the fence," Garrus set the stage, "Then the sniper vanishes right before your eyes."

Jacob considered the effect.

"You don't know where they are, you just know that they're probably taking careful aim on you with an absolute guarantee that they're going to hit unless you're under cover." Garrus picked up right where he dropped the matter as well, "But not just any cover," he clarified, "It has to be the right cover, the cover that will force the sniper to have to move in order to line up the shot. You have no idea how many mercs I've shot just from their frantic attempts to find 'the right cover'," he concluded with a satisfied sigh.

Jacob's lower lip protruded in acceptance of the data, "I think I've got something to work with now, I appreciate the assist."

"Let me know how it's going when we get back," Garrus intoned, "I wouldn't mind corroborating on this with you, Jacob."

"I'll keep a spot on the bench for you," he responded gratefully.

* * *

><p><span>Sick in the Head<span>

The cargo bay doors slid open allowing the grumpy form of Zaeed to pass through.

"Goddam nutritional regimen," he mumbled under his breath, "Like I dunno how to goddam eat."

He turned immediately into the men's head and sauntered up to the door of the stall.

"Still," he mused, "nice piece of arse on that yeom'n," he tugged but the door was fastened shut.

"Can't deny your skills at perception," came a flippant voice from behind the door, "But if you want to "flog the merc" about it, you're going to have to use the standing service over there."

Zaeed snarled and glanced at the urinal, "Get out o'there," he grumbled at the door.

"Um, I'm kinda busy at the moment, as a matter of fact," the voice echoed strangely in the small chamber, "Just wait your turn or use the "big man's potty" on the wall, would you?"

"I gotta take a shi',-" The mercenary exclaimed, dropping the "t" sound altogether.

"Well," the voice attempted calmness, "I'm almost done here. Can you give a guy a couple of minutes?"

"Well," Zaeed attempted his version of patience, "Wha' are you doing then?"

Silence came back from the enclosed stall, then, "Uh, using the restroom facilities."

Zaeed waved a hand dismissively, "Naw, I mean, are you taking a shi' or are you pissin' like a gahrl?"

A smaller round of silence emerged this time. "I'm going for the hat trick, if you really want to know."

"Ha' trick?" Zaeed said, confused, "Wha' ha' trick?"

"All three!"

Zaeed blinked. He stood there dumbfounded for a long moment when there was movement on the other side of the stall. "All three wha'?" he said finally.

The door opened and Joker limped out, "All yours Mr. Pirate, plunder away." He checked himself in the mirror while Zaeed stood there staring at him.

"Wha's wrong with you?" the merc growled.

Joker froze in mid-motion of checking his flight suit, staring at the scarred old fellow in the mirror.

"Izza' why you fly, 'cause you go' a bum leg?"

Joker calmed himself and resumed his attire check, "No, I fly because I'm the best. Kind of like how you do that mercenary thing even though you've got a small brain."

Zaeed continued to regard the pilot with strange interest, "Had a drop-pilot once that had no legs a' all. Scrawny li'le salarian," he commented, "She couldn't fly a straight line wehth a fahck, but she had nehves o'steel." Zaeed chuckled, "Used to pack the lower par' o' the cockpit with active explosives set to a life-triggah. Said it was a big enough load to make escape pods and rescue a non-option. Go' to prove it too – stupid batarian called her bluff and made her dead." He glanced at the now-empty stall, "Planet lost 2% of it's goddam atmosfeh."

Jeff decided to take that as an apology of sorts.

The stall door closed shut and Joker decided that he was in good enough shape to get to his bunk for a quick nap while the Commander was still out and about on the Citadel. No shore leave, since they would be departing as soon as the party returned.

An obnoxious flatulating noise reverberated across the small metal chamber causing Joker to turn and regard the stall in alarm. The occupant grunted in satisfaction as the noise continued to ricochet within the room and inside his head. Joker hastened his departure. The doors opened, allowing him to leave.

"Hey!" Zaeed called out from behind the stall door.

Joker turned, "Yeah?"

"All three wha'?"

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: For those of you who love to stick to canon, I ask your forgiveness for this segment. I know that it's plainly evident that, when you open the men's or ladies bathroom on the Normandy, the facilities are right there – no stall, no privacy, all military and such. But there's just something about that, isn't there? The thought of playing patty cake with the passenger seated to your left while somebody walks in, exposing every little facet of detail to the crowd outside . . . well, I couldn't take it, so I put a stall in the bathroom. Okay? Please bear with me and try to image how horrible this segment would have gone without a door. Thanks.<strong>


	10. Chapter 10: Stowaway

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series.**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 10: Stowaway<span>**

The gangway slid open and Garrus and Mordin accompanied Shepard back onto the Normandy to a flurry of movement further back from the cockpit. They approached the CIC, Mordin heading to the Science Lab to the left, Garrus, to the Armory on the right. Shepard headed for the command station where Yeoman Chambers was actively conversing with at another person within the ship.

"They've already set it up to sell on a lot at auction on the Citadel," she was explaining, "But Shepard wants those sales to go back into the ship via fresh produce next docking station that has fresh food."

She spotted Jennifer approach and tried to catch her eye with an expression that clearly told a story of need.

"She just boarded," she closed out her previous conversation, "I'll find out and get back to you directly, Ms. Lawson."

"Hey, Kelly," she greeted her warmly.

Kelly brightened, but still seemed agitated, "Commander, the larders are stocked so full we need to have a celebratory feast at launch to make sure the stock doesn't spoil too soon – this is amazing," she gestured before her with both hands. "Ms. Lawson wanted to request the source of funds to purchase so much high quality stock, but I suppose that's not really her…"

Shepard grinned, "There are plenty of resources for a reinstated Spectre."

Kelly grimaced, "Of course, I should have thought of that," she smiled, "That's brilliant."

Jennifer smiled back, "Thanks." It wasn't just brilliant, it was perfect timing. The half-gallon of fresh fruit juice was just the thing she desperately needed to mask and burn the returning taste of her previous fiasco of a meal. The citric acid didn't taste the same as from the trees grown from Earth, but they did the trick of destroying the fetid taste of "Chef's Surprise."

"But we have a problem," she frowned a bit, "We can't depart from the Citadel, our latest expected member hasn't arrived yet."

"Kasumi?" Shepard raised an eyebrow. "I met her at the entrance to Zakara Ward hours ago. She said she was coming directly to the ship."

Kelly nodded, "Yes, and we've been expecting her, but she hasn't boarded. Is it possible she was discovered somehow and-"

Shepard raised a hand, "Hang on," she glanced overhead, "EDI, Is Kasumi Goto on board this vessel?"

"Unknown," came the synthetic voice.

"You see?" Kelly started.

Shepard raised the hand again, "Unknown? Not 'no?'" Shepard had expected a professional stealth-field specialist to be always testing the systems. She did it herself in her third year at the academy, and she wasn't alone. She had only been caught once. Most of the cadets thought they could use the units to far greater efficiency than those who trained them, but nearly everyone was always caught every time they used them. In fact, the punishment was severe enough so that you really only needed to be caught once to discourage further attempts to foil the academy guards. The truth is, most cadets were caught on their first outing, but Shepard had already developed a few stealthy techniques before she ever joined the academy. She had succeeded at avoiding detection dozens of times.

But this young girl was no cadet with a history on the street. She was a professional thief. She was not only familiar with avoiding detection physically, she was all about avoiding all detection of any sort, completely. That was why she was recruited. And a professional of that degree would certainly put the systems of the Normandy to the test. "Kasumi Goto was registered by internal sensors at 04:27 hours earlier this date," EDI specified.

Shepard grinned broadly, "But you haven't registered her since?"

EDI paused briefly, "Yes, she's-"

"-Right behind you," a slight feminine figure appeared from under a stealth field. "You didn't tell me you had an AI on board, Shepard, still it took until now for anyone aboard to find me."

Kelly interjected, "You were-?"

"That will do yeoman," Shepard cut her off, she turned to Kasumi, "I don't believe this crew is familiar with handling a skilled cloaker, Kasumi," she was still grinning.

"Well," she returned pleasantly, "You might want to beef up protocols. There are so many items of value aboard this vessel that an experienced thief would easily turn freelance just to plunder her."

Shepard shrugged, "Maybe, but Cerberus is footing the bill. We can replace what we really need."

Kasumi smiled gently and cocked her head to the side, "There is a module in the drive core worth more on the open market than members of the council make in five galactic years – you wouldn't be able to replace that soon enough to stop the Collectors."

Shepard stopped short and half-turned to her yeoman, "Kelly, have the duty roster for patrols tripled when we're in port and pay special attention to stealth field technology." She turned back to Kasumi, "Thanks for the tip."

"Happy to help," she smiled back. She found she liked Kasumi. She thought she wouldn't since the oriental girl was a professional thief and that was not the side of the law that Shepard was used to dealing on. But she was sophisticated and appeared to operate under a code of sorts as a professional, not just a two-bit crook. This woman was more like herself than she initially thought. It had to be her reliance on the cloaking technology that brought their similarities so close. Shepard used it as a tool, but this woman lived by it – almost like Shepard lived by the use of her sniper rifle. She felt like she had a sister on board now and she wanted to do whatever she could for her.

"Could you schedule some time with my Yeoman so that she can assign you appropriate quarters and devise a regimen for the trip?"

"Oh, I've settled in one of the Observation decks already," she offered, "And I know that I spotted the ingredients for a few exceptional dishes that I could cook up myself when Sergeant Gardner isn't tending to the mess hall-"

"You don't need to do that," Shepard stopped her, "It's Gardner's job to fix you up whatever you need, and it's Kelly's job here," she gestured to her yeoman, "To help get you settled."

The tiny oriental shrugged nervously, "Sorry, I'm not used to having access to being aboard a ship, I usually have to travel hidden in the cargo hold."

"Kasumi," Shepard softly put her hand on the girl's shoulder, "You are a member of my crew, you don't just 'have access,' you're welcome here."

The girl was silent for a moment. "I'm not used to that at all." She shifted nervously as Shepard gently took her hand away, "I'm not usually welcomed anywhere."

"We need your skills and courage, we're not just going to drop you out here," she gestured to Kelly again, "And if you need anything, you don't need to take it, just requisition it from Ms. Chambers."

She giggled a bit, "Shepard, I'm a professional, I don't just take what I don't have," her shoulders pulled in more again, "But I really appreciate what you said."

"And I meant it," Shepard said sternly, "If you have a need, ask. You have support here."

"Speaking of which," Kelly launched at the small pause, "I already had the team get their hands on some excellent sushi and ramen. But we need to know if you have any food allergies. Can we go over the list?"

Kasumi smiled brightly, "Sure."

Shepard patted her on the arm and headed for the lift.

It opened and Joker burst out, "Outta the way, I gotta get to the bridge-" he stopped short, finally noticing he was facing his Commander. "Oh," he shifted uncomfortably on two fronts, "Commander, that's nice armor, is that purple?"

Jennifer smirked and put a hand on her hip, "Lavender," she corrected.

"How do you hide in that? You can't snipe with pastel rainbow written all over you, can you?" he changed his expression slightly, "Yeah, don't mind me, I'm just aiming for your face over here. Just pretend you don't see me."

She sighed with a grin, "I only have trouble if they're close enough to see me."

"Right, uh," he lowered his voice, "Sorry about the-"

"Are you okay?" she returned just as quiet.

He twitched nervously, "Slept bad on my left side, happens sometimes, especially in port," he kept his head down, still apologetic, "But I'm up for anything, I just gotta get to the cockpit."

She paused gently, "Alright, then I won't keep you," she patted him softly on the right shoulder as she entered the lift, "And set a course for Korlus in the Eagle Nebula. Best speed once we've prepped and cleared the docks."

"Aye, aye," he responded as he made his way forward.

She started undoing the straps as the doors to the Captain's cabin opened. She set her armor in its place in the armory stand and started on her under wrap. She messaged her feet as she looked over her incoming messages, onboard checklists, internal communiqués, and system notes. Down to her skivvies, she opened the last two dossiers and punched up Korlus.

Okeer was a clanless krogan warlord of incredible talent and battle prowess. The addition of such a competent krogan would be helpful, but not a particularly powerful piece on the playing field. If they encountered husks, it would be good to have him along. But it seemed that there was more going on here than a simple battlemaster who survived a krogan coup. He had been recorded as having some kind of contact with the collectors. It was possible that they were holding him at this facility on Korlus. They may need their countermeasures sooner than expected. But they wouldn't know until they got there.

She stripped the rest of her garments and stepped into the sonic shower. She allowed it to ritualistically cleanse her of all of the turmoil she had been undergoing. This was truly the first time she had been able to relax since they departed. The combination of hot water and ultrasonic vibration did the trick at calming her muscles. And the solitude calmed her mind.

She sat on the edge of her bed, looking down at her oddly bulging feet, the towels still wrapped around her body and head. She sat quietly for a long while.

Tentatively, almost a whisper, she started, "Hello?"

* * *

><p><strong>Too Many Cooks<strong>

"Come in," Miranda Lawson's voice sounded clearly as the doors to her office on the Crew Deck slid opened. "Sergeant Gardner," she said somewhat surprised, "What can I do for you?"

"Er, Ms. Lawson," Rupert Gardner stepped nervously into the room, allowing the door to slide shut behind him, "I, er, was looking over the menu, and, er," he scratched his head, clearly uncomfortable, "Well, it says I'm supposed to make Chicken Milanese with asiago and parmesan prosciutto and a 'Sang-yo-vees' 2026."

"That's San-jo-VAY-ze," Miranda corrected with the proper pronunciation for, Sangiovese, a fine Italian wine, "You can substitute with a Chianti," she said dismissively.

"Oh, no, we've got the sangajo-whatsits," Gardner hastily added.

Miranda looked up from her work with a curious expression, "We do?"

"Yes, ma'am," Gardner confirmed, "and I'm supposed to make pot roast for about a half dozen, and a grilled salmon, fruit salad, and," he squinted, trying to think, "about a half-dozen other dishes in the next hour and a half."

"That's strange," Miranda steepled her fingers to her chin.

Gardner quickly agreed, "I know."

"2026 was a very good year for Sangiovese," she furrowed her brow further, "She must have spent a fortune on it."

Gardner took aback, "uh, well…" he started.

Miranda started punching up extranet searches, "There's no chance she could have just picked one up either – those things don't just go sailing around Citadel space for a credit a dozen." She stopped and scanned a page, "…fine aged…" she read on, "…Sangiovese 2051…current bid…" Her eyes widened, "Oh no. No way, that is not-" she left her sentence opened as she seemed to find no words to fill it.

"Uh, ma'am?" Gardner reminded her he was still in the room.

She looked up at him with alarm, "You were right to bring this to my attention Sergeant," she rose from her chair, "This is a very serious matter and I'll take it up with the Commander as soon as she returns. Thank you for your vigilance."

Gardner looked confused, "But, uh, that's not the reason I'm here ma'am," Miranda stopped on her way around the desk, "You see," he paused again, uncomfortable, "Well, I don't know how to cook Chicken Milanese. I'm not from the Philippines or anything."

Miranda did another double take, as if she was witnessing a crime before her very eyes. And she was clearly torn between which crime had been committed.

"That," Gardner continued, "Or a grilled salmon, or," he waved his hands in the air, "Miltast, whatever that is."

Miranda changed her expression to one of comprehension.

"Much less," Gardner continued, "all within an hour and a half. And that's supposing nothing needs to be repaired during that time. I'm used to doing the work of three men all by myself, but," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "that menu will take at least three men all on its own."

Miranda's mind was already in management of the crisis. This was unforeseen, but it could be rectified. "You're right, of course." She offered as her brain fumed with optimality projections.

"I'm not complaining or anything, it's just, well," he scratched his head again, "I know my limits."

Miranda was gazing toward the window and the orbital plane of Korlus. "We have to get the most important issues under control first," she considered as she turned to face the mess hall sergeant, "How many bottles did you say we had?"


	11. Chapter 11: Food Fight

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series.**

**Warning: Explicit language.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 11: Food Fight<span>

The elevator doors opened and Jennifer turned to go through the Armory to the Briefing Room. She had made certain that the tank with the "one perfect krogan" was securely bolted down in the cargo bay and was receiving a flurry of complaints over the comm-channel from Miranda who seemed more agitated than usual with notation that she was discussing the situation with Jacob in the Briefing Room.

"Bringing the krogan for study makes sense," Miranda's voice, directed at Jacob, greeted her as the doors opened into the chamber, "but I have concerns about waking it."

"Yeah," Jacob acknowledged, "You've said that a few times now."

Miranda pressed her point, "A normal krogan is dangerous. This one was created, and likely educated, by a madman."

"We were here to pick up that madman as an addition to our crew," Shepard offered, "But you didn't seem to object to that."

Miranda put a hand on her hip, "Okeer had a back-story and a profile. A history we could review and make estimate on. This tank-krogan is a blank slate. We don't know anything about it, Commander."

Shepard looked her over with curiosity, "You don't like things that you can't directly control, do you?"

Miranda pursed her lips, disliking the analysis and scrutiny she was receiving. "I'm just thinking of the security of the ship. Krogan fight well in close quarters. Perhaps awakening him in a confined space wouldn't be prudent."

Shepard's posture and expression hadn't changed, "Why are you wearing an apron?"

Miranda looked down. She had donned one of Gardner's spare aprons. Then she looked back at Shepard, "And that's another thing," fresh memories swiveling into focus, "Where did you get a 2026 Sangiovese? That's a very imprudent purchase with so much at stake."

Shepard finally changed expressions to confused, "What do you mean, I use an M-6 Carnifex."

Miranda shook her head, "No, not your pistol, Shepard, the wine. The bottle of Sangiovese 2026, that's sitting in the mess hall. I know it couldn't have been bought cheap, and the amount of credits you must have paid for it-"

"Wine?" Shepard interrupted, "I didn't buy any wine."

Miranda stared at her, "Then how did we get a…?"

Shepard was shaking her head, "Miranda, the only thing I'm concerned about opening right now is a krogan 2185."

Miranda stared, dumbfounded, as she pondered.

Shepard spoke toward the Briefing Room table, "EDI, was there a purchase of wine from the Citadel?"

The synthesized voice returned after a very brief pause, "Not specifically. However, there were several bottles of human beverages purchased with a "lot 425" on auction."

Miranda gaped in astonishment, "How much was that lot purchased for?"

"Does it matter?" Shepard asked, raising her head.

"Fifty-two credits."

"What?" Miranda's hand went to her forehead. "Fifty-two? That's impossible. It is simply not possible!"

EDI added more information, "Much of the lot included tribal relics, turian artifacts, and various high-end objects known to be status symbols in turian socio-political circles. A great deal of them were not taken aboard but have been slated to undergo future auction at the Citadel under the name J. Shepard with an account tied to the funding account for this ship."

Jennifer started smiling, "Mystery solved."

"What do you mean, 'mystery solved?'" Miranda went on, "We still don't know who bought it."

"EDI," the Commander pursued, "Who established the account under J. Shepard?"

"Yeoman Kelly Chambers."

A look of enlightenment swept across Ms. Lawson's face.

"We can leave the tank safely in the cargo hold until I figure out what to do with it," Jennifer started for the door, satisfied that Miranda's nature had been satisfied, "But right now, I'm starving again."

"Your meal isn't ready yet, Shepard." Miranda moved to catch the door.

"Is that what you're doing?" Jennifer grinned again, "Fixing my meal?"

"Technically, Sergeant Gardner is fixing your meal," the aproned operative corrected as she walked past, "I'm fixing my meal, and Ms. Goto's – apparently, I'm the only one on board who can adequately prepare sushi."

Jennifer gave an impressed look.

"But come on down, anyway – it's become quite a collaboration."

On the way, she had Joker set course for their next destination and watched as Miranda tried to work her way through an awkward show of appreciation to Kelly. The yeoman's explanation kept her employer flabbergasted with disbelief.

"It seems that a wealthy turian had discovered that humans valued fine aged wines, so he spent a fortune buying up six or seven dozen when the human fleets had defeated sovereign – partly to leverage against the growing human political strength on the Citadel, but more just to show off that he could throw money around. But when he went to sell off a few lots of so-called "junk" he had no idea which of the bottles was worth what. I couldn't believe it myself when I saw them in the lot – I had to grab it." She grinned, "I sniped it out from under a volus merchant – see Shepard? I'm taking notes from you."

Miranda laughed a genuine laugh she had never heard before, "In that case, I owe you a glass."

At least half the crew was in the mess hall, either prepping a meal, or helping in some capacity.

Since Rupert was completely engaged in cooking a dozen different meals at the same time, several off-duty crew members were standing by to help with any maintenance issues. It reminded Jennifer of the block parties the middle-class folk would have in the summertime; everyone pitching in so that everyone could enjoy. And Miranda had clearly taken over the administration of the event, waving a spatula around, directing the 'troops' as various meals met with completion and crewmembers indulged in their respective fares.

During this time, Shepard got a chance to rub elbows with several members of the standard crew (no one would let her cook). She even played some table games while the crowd waited.

Gardner brought her meal over himself, "Make way! Hot stuff coming through!" he set down a steaming bowl of rice with some brownish and some greenish things mixed in. She was hesitant to try it, considering her last attempt to eat Gardner's cooking. The smell gave nothing away – it smelled . . . hot. That was all. But the taste was quite delicate, chicken and some kind of greens. It turned out to be a very pacified kale (filled with nutrients, but not too tasty). Her third fork-full, she noticed Sergeant Gardner finally moving back to his ovens, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

* * *

><p>And This One Time, In Space Camp . . .<p>

"Pinned us down on a bridge over a ravine," the mercenary rambled, "Goddam batarian mercs used a thermal charge that blew the bridge apar'. Some of us managed to take coveh in the platform on the other side, but half the goddam team fell a hundred feet into the ravine." He tried to wiggle his fingers and gritted his teeth in pain. "Held that position for over an hour – that was their last thermal charge, otherwise we'd have been done for."

The old warrior draped the hand over his chest once more and leaned back into the pillow, using his good eye to stare at the ceiling. "That job stank from the moment we went live anyway – neveh should 'a' gone in the fehrst place." He glanced downward toward his hand again, wondering whether to try moving it again, "Neveh take a job from a batarian to kill anotheh batarian – damn snipes." He tried to move his thumb and felt a numbness through the tingling – he wasn't sure if it had moved at all. "Anyway," he continued, "Theh we wuz, a half-dozen mercs on a platform under a crop o' rock with nothin' but open space to our backs and a bunch of batarian mercs lobbin' shouts and gunfire from good coveh."

Dr. Chakwas continued to enter data into her system from across the Medical Lab, appearing to pay no attention to the aged mercenary as he continued his story.

Zaeed chuckled, "Would have run out of ammo and got dead if the damned krogan hadn't climbed all the way back up the ravine and charged them down. Had a thing about fallin'. Not much left o' the batarians once he got done explainin'. Tough sons-o-bitches, them krogan."

The doctor continued her impassive study of the terminal, but responded anyway, "How does your hand feel?"

The old man wrapped against the case around his trigger hand, "Broken."

"That's because you keep trying to flex it." She finished what she was doing and moved to his bedside to check it.

"A merc without a triggah fingah ain't much of a merc," he growled.

"But a merc who takes down a crazed krogan who just smashed his hand and shotgun in a charge is definitely something of a merc." She studied the hand, the two main fingers and the thumb completely covered in a plastic shell, gently turning it in her own hands. She concentrated on the pinky. "Where did you get that little scar from."

"Knife figh' in the- oh, what? That one?" He checked, "Paper cut."

"You're joking," she looked directly at him now.

He chuckled, "Go' tha' when I was a li'l brat, messing around in me mum's office – never saw paper before."

Dr. Chakwas grinned down at him as she angled one of her scanners over the cast, "You certainly are an interesting man. Most people would have run out of stories an hour ago, and you seem to have mapped them all over your flesh."

"Most people don't do shi' in a day," he grumbled uncaringly, "I've lived lifetimes before morning is over."

"Clearly, based on the lack of unscarred tissue you boast." Waves of light washed over the doctor's face as she studied the readout, "So you must be incredibly bored laying in an old doctor's Med Bay, waiting for your injury to recover."

Zaeed stared at her for a moment before responding, "Normally, I would – but you know how to handle a merc, I go'a say."

She grinned again, "I've had some experience with patients too eager to return to the fight."

He scrutinized her a bit longer, "How long have you known Shepard?"

Now she smiled. He hadn't lost the context of her comment. "We met during the Skyllian Blitz. And she was every bit as ornery about being a patient as you are."

"You were in the Skyllian Blitz?"

"I was in the medical response team," she corrected. "We arrived on the scene of a bloodbath unlike any I was ever prepared for. We found Shepard in the corner of the room behind a pile of dead batarians so high we had to find her on scanners."

"But she didn't come out of it all that worse for wear, did she?"

"Some have scars on the outside and some on the inside," the doctor admitted, "But Shepard seems to be remarkably immune to scarring of any type. She had over three dozen serious wounds over the majority of her body. Bullet holes, burns that peeled the flesh away, stabbings that went inches deep, she was covered with them. But between her field trauma training and a determination that remains with her to this day, she was still ready for a fight when we pulled the bodies back."

Zaeed was impressed. "How did she get through all that without any scarring at all?"

"She had a superb doctor," she said as she activated a control and the cast peeled away revealing Zaeed's hand.

He flexed the muscles with no pain. "Well, look at tha'. Good as goddam new." He looked back up at Dr. Chakwas expressionless. "Now if I can only get my shotgun lookin' as good. I thought that damned krogan had finished my fighting days for good."

"I'm afraid I can't help you with your shotgun, Mr. Massani," she apologized. "Perhaps Jacob can refit you with a new one. But I believe you are able to return to duty."

He swiveled on the bed and hopped to the floor as the doctor reset her equipment.

She felt a sharp slap against her right buttock.

"Thanks doc," Zaeed said as he sauntered out of the Medical Bay, satisfied that his new hand had passed his own personal test.


	12. Chapter 12: You Don't Know Jack

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series.**

**Warning: Explicit language.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 12: You Don't Know Jack<span>

An angry woman, dressed in tattoos and cargo pants, raged at the view outside the prison station known as Purgatory. The symbol near the gangway of the ship docked alongside the facility identified it clearly to her and it was the one thing she never wanted to see again.

So absorbed was she that she didn't notice the Blue Suns guard moving into kill range with his gun drawn until he was just feet away.

She turned and barely had a chance to see him before his helmet imploded from the front. The cause was a gunshot sounding behind her. She turned and saw a red-haired woman in black body armor tinted with lavender highlights rising from a kneeling position on the deck and holstering a sniper rifle behind her back.

She took a few steps back to regain her composure. Shepard watched as the woman wiped the anger and fear from her face and replaced it with a cool contempt. The mask was not fully in place before she began to speak.

"What the hell do you want."

"Your services," Shepard said, bluntly, "We came to get you out of here."

"Shit, you sound like a pussy," the woman started pacing across the corridor they stood in. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she softly spat, "You're Cerberus."

"I am Commander Shepard," Jennifer corrected, "formerly reinstated Citadel Spectre and Alliance N7 Commander," then she pointed to her left where Miranda was standing, "She's Cerberus. But like I said, we're not here to fight you, we're here to recruit you."

The woman, known from their dossiers as Jack, glanced over her shoulder at the Normandy, hanging by a hollow thread to the station, "You show up in a Cerberus frigate to take me away somewhere. You think I'm stupid?"

"Not that you have a lot of options at this point," Jennifer gestured toward the station which was slowly breaking up as they spoke, "May I suggest that you allow us to escort you off this crumbling excuse for an extortion racket and discuss terms once we're aboard?"

Miranda posited a thought into the conversation, "We could just knock her out and take her."

The young woman bristled, "I'd like to see you try."

"Stand down," Shepard spoke toward Miranda, Garrus holstered his pistol after checking the corridors again.

"Good move," Jack boasted.

"This is not the place for a full negotiation," Shepard held a tentative hand up, "But I swear to you, if you decide not to join us we will release you at the first opportunity we get – The Citadel or Omega, whichever you like." She spoke directly, "You have my word on that."

"Look," Jack leaned in defiantly, "You want me to come with you, make it worth my while."

"If you join me on this mission, I'll do whatever I can."

Jack's eyes narrowed, "Don't make promises you can't keep. I bet your ship's got a lot of Cerberus databases. I want to look at those files; see what Cerberus has on me." She stepped back and crossed her arms, "You want me on your team, let me go through those databases."

"Done," Shepard said, simply.

"Shepard," Miranda spoke out again, "You're not authorized to do that!"

"Aw," Jack mocked the Cerberus agent, "It upsets the cheerleader," her face took on its harder tone once more, "Even better."

They made their way to the ship and Shepard requested an immediate meeting in the Briefing Room to further negotiate her terms.

The former convict smirked as she pieced together the data as it was revealed to her. She was quick to form the nuances of the mission into a brief encapsulation. "Save the universe?" Jack mocked casually, "Are you shitting me?"

"I'm not recruiting you to save the universe, Jack," Shepard said evenly, "As I said, I'm recruiting you to fight the forces that are threatening innocent human colonies and protect those lives as best we can." She leaned forward on the briefing table, "In addition, I will put in a good word for you with the citadel Council and get all charges against you dropped."

Jack folded her arms again, "Now that's a laugh," she cocked her head to the side, "Do you know how many life sentences I was serving?"

"Well, if that isn't possible, you can remain retained to my service as long as it all works out well between us – you'll have a place to be and something of value to do," she stood back and put a hand on her hip, "better than being frozen solid in some maximum insanity prison facility in the middle of nowhere."

Jack studied her for a few moments, "You are actually serious."

Shepard stood still.

The convict mulled over the situation for a moment, "All right, I'm in."

Shepard folded her arms, "Glad to have you on the team."

Miranda paced forward, "As you're now a part of the crew," she began, "I'd like to welcome you to the Normandy. I'm Miranda, Shepard's second-in-command. On this ship, we follow orders." She ceased her pacing between the two women, blocking Jennifer's view of the other woman. Shepard was taken aback. This seemed a strange point in time to assert military standards considering how non-military the ship had been maintained up to this point. She knew that Miranda was trying to impose a more strict form of order on the ex-convict so that they could maintain an authority toward her. But this wasn't a tactic that Shepard thought would endear a rowdy to their service.

Jack's voice flowed around her just fine though, "Tell the Cerberus cheerleader to back off, Shepard," she said with contempt, "I'm here because of our deal."

"As my second, Miranda will give you full access to the files you requested," Shepard said evenly, deciding not to rebuke the rules Miranda had just cited, "When you get an opportunity, please stop and speak with my Yeoman, Kelly Chambers, she'll take care of anything else you need."

"Hear that, precious?" Jack jumped up, still mocking Miranda, "We're going to be friends – you, me, and every embarrassing little secret." She stepped toward the doors, "I'll be reading down in the hold or somewhere near the bottom. I don't like a lot of through traffic."

Miranda took a sour step or two out from in between them as the doors opened and the ex-convict left the room.

"Keep your people off me," Jack's voice echoed slightly in the corridor, "Better that way."

Miranda looked back at her and shook her head before following to provide the documents she didn't want to give up.

"Miranda," Shepard asked before the doors closed, "If you would please return to me here once Jack has the files."

Miranda frowned, but nodded.

The commander paced back and forth for a while, mulling over the points of importance in her mind before calling Garrus to the Briefing Room as well. If she was going to confront the Cerberus operative, she wanted someone she could trust there as well.

Miranda got there first.

"You had no authority to release those files to a convict, whatever the reason," she stormed almost as the doors opened. "Do you know what you've done? Do you know what kind of security breach you've just caused?"

"Just calm down, Miranda," Shepard tried to ease the administrator out of her rage.

"Calm down?" her eyes flashed, "I'm going to make a full report to the Illusive Man about this," she started

"You can certainly do that," Shepard started raising her voice, "Right after I make mine."

Miranda stopped cold, "What do you mean: after you make yours?"

"I'm going to request that you be removed from this command."

"What?"

The door behind her opened to allow Garrus through, turning Miranda's head which returned an incredulous stare back at Shepard's stern gaze.

Shepard allowed the doors to fully close before she continued, "I told you before that if you had any trouble being under my command, I wanted you to make it clear," Shepard clarified, "Instead, you've been testing my orders at every opportunity, questioning my authority in the field, and jeopardizing our mission at its roots."

Miranda finally closed her mouth and straightened as she offered her rebuttal, "I have followed every single command you have given-"

"Not without push-back."

"You don't want a puppet officer," she shot back, "You need a strong personality to ensure that your decisions are vetted."

"A fair point," Shepard agreed, "and that's what I thought I was getting until this last mission." She turned to the turian, "Garrus, how would you characterize the first encounter with our prospective team member, Jack?"

Garrus, who appeared to have walked in on the famous Illium "no-holes-barred" mud-match of asari fame, composed himself thoughtfully before answering, "It was pretty tense there."

"Why would you say that?" Shepard questioned.

He saw where she wanted him to go, and went there, "Well, I must admit, it didn't help matters to suggest that we knock her out and drag her onboard against her will," Garrus offered a hand, casually, "That wouldn't have been the way I approached recruiting a new ally," he shrugged, "And I'm turian."

"She was being difficult," Miranda countered.

Garrus cross-countered, "And if she's difficult in the field?" he left the question opened.

"All the more reason to impose the chain of command early on," Miranda shot back.

"We hadn't even established to her that we were friendly, yet," Garrus folded his arms.

"It was almost as if," Shepard spoke in a commanding voice now, and the other two stopped and listened, "you wanted the negotiations to fail. First you suggest violent action against someone who we know is accustomed to violence, then you question my authority to provide the records she requested for her cooperation."

"But those are security records, Shepard," Miranda implored, "You can't just hand over the keys to the vault to a hardened criminal!"

"We can if we need their help."

Miranda's look soured, "You just allowed it because you have no personal stake in Cerberus and its operations, I do!"

"So what you're saying," Shepard slowed her tone and cadence down, "Is that you feel I am becoming a liability to your organization?"

The words stopped Miranda in her verbal tracks. She clearly wanted to say something, but was deliberately denying it from being uttered from her own lips.

"And just how far will you let me stretch that liability before you do something about it?"

The agent's face look pained, "You would take a hard-core criminal, like Jack, over me?"

"No," Jennifer spoke softly, "You are, by far, superior to the services that Jack offers us. I'd rather have both of you on my team. Your skills and abilities are indispensable, and Jack's power is undeniable." She took a breath and turned to pace, "The problem is, Jack's loyalties are only skin deep – I might as well be a tattoo on her back for all she cares. But yours," she turned to stare at Miranda, "Yours aren't to me at all. You're doing this because you were ordered to by your boss."

Miranda closed up again, a sure sign that she was dead on target.

"Lu spent a lot of time, effort, and I understand, money to get this endeavor rolling, and I fully intend to put everything we've got into stopping the collectors, whether it's what your boss wants or not – it just so happens that, for all we know, it is what he wants."

"It is," she confirmed.

"Have I ever lied to you, Miranda?"

"No," she said simply.

"Have I ever done anything to lead you to believe that I am not taking our mission seriously?"

Miranda's eyes darted off to the side as she pulled a sigh, "No, Commander."

"Have I," Jennifer stepped forward, "proven myself to be a liability to your organization?"

Miranda sized her up, staring eye to eye, "I can't answer that question."

"Can't?" Garrus interjected from the sidelines, "Or don't want to?"

Miranda stepped back, "No, I can't. I have no direct evidence that any action you have taken has actually damaged Cerberus."

"You feel that they have though?" Shepard pressed.

"Yes," she confessed, "I think that you're a little too free with the resources Cerberus has offered you. But in all honesty," she now admitted it to herself, "I really can't say whether the damage done will harm or help our cause. We are up against the Collectors. The odds are grim and the stakes are high. I suppose, you really can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs," she offered, an old saying about missing opportunities by avoiding risk.

"Be careful, Miranda," Shepard's warning caused her to look toward her with caution, "You may make me reconsider contacting Lu about this."

She smirked, "That's exactly what I want," she brought her hand to her forehead in exasperation, "I have been acting like an arse. I'm sorry Commander," she let out a sigh, "I have been losing perspective since this voyage began."

Garrus crossed his arms, he was used to witnessing Shepard's command style before and he was always impressed. This episode was reminiscent of his discussions with her about rising out of C-Sec and his vengeance at the red-tape releases that aggravated him so much. This was, of course, why she had called him here. Backup against another member of the command chain, but also to step in if she needed him and assure Miranda that this was the way it was done, just as it was done with him.

"I need to find my bearings in this dynamic," she paced a short pattern, trying to collect herself, "It's just that woman, Jack . . . I don't know, something about her just rubs me the wrong way."

"She revels in rubbing people the wrong way," Shepard helped, observantly, "She has the power to challenge most forms of authority and that gives her personality a fresh excuse to keep doing it."

"And as long as she has the biotics to back up the tough talk," Garrus chimed in, "She will keep doing it."

Shepard nodded in his direction, "Not necessarily."

"What's to stop her?" Miranda shrugged.

"People can surprise you," Shepard hinted, "All we have to do is come across something that means enough to her and we have the head of a spear instead of the point of a dagger."

Garrus conjectured on an equal footing, "Fair enough, but that's not something that we can manufacture for her benefit. In all likelihood, she'll continue to be as antagonistic as she was on Purgatory."

"Which is why," Shepard reflected, "It is so important to build a neutral-positive working relationship with her." Shepard was in total agreement with Garrus. They couldn't manufacture the circumstances needed to build the kind of trust needed to pull Jack into a team. Then again, if they could manufacture such circumstances, they would not culminate into such a bond, merely because they were manufactured. Oddly, Shepard had come to trust that such opportunities rarely did not manufacture themselves when she had the need for it. She had sensed a hero in Jack, lying in wait, just under the surface. She had become used to spotting heroes and she knew she wasn't wrong about this one. In the right place, at the right time, this hero would emerge. She just had to give her the chance. She turned to Miranda, "Can I count on your support from here on out, Miranda?"

"Yes," she nodded directly, "I won't let you down again, Shepard."

"She's already formed an authority pattern on you," she directed, "So you're locked into that behavior. Maintain the regimen, just don't push."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Cite the regulations wherever they need to be cited, but let her blow you off," Shepard instructed.

Garrus commented, "Won't that disrupt the chain of command?"

"Not if she only projects the face of authority, but does not enforce it."

"I see," Miranda was very quick, "You are the authority, I'm just there as a reminder."

"Right," Shepard acknowledged, "Let her do what she wants as long as it's not something we can't let slip – like shooting civilians, damaging the ship, or endangering the mission. If she goes that far, then we can't use her – better to get over that hurdle before it festers long."

Both nodded in agreement.

"But since she's already fixed you as the," she made quotes in the air with her fingers, "Cerberus Cheerleader," she dropped her hands to her sides again, "Let's play into that."

The Cerberus cheerleader did an elaborate swooping salute, wheeling her hand from her side out and above her head, coming to rest at her brow, "Yes Commander."

Jennifer grinned, "In the meantime, I think we've cleared the air out enough to let this go."

Garrus nodded again, "Agreed."

Shepard put a hand on Miranda's shoulder to reassure her that they were all on equal footing again, "Now I've got to unpack something we need for the mission."

* * *

><p><span>Legacy of a Warlord<span>

"Remember the name, Warlord Okeer! It will strike terror into our enemies." "Strength is gained not from hiding in a hole, but in breaking your foes!" "This is to be my legacy – to ignore those who sought power over the krogan." "This grunt … perfect."

The rush of water fleeing the tank. "Down" pulled upon him, he had never sensed that like this before. His eyes opened, but his chest was gurgling up something. He had taken in a breath of something that was not fluid – now the fluids in his chest wanted to get out.

Weak, he thought, flee then. He dropped to his knees and coughed the fluids onto the deck. He took another breath in. More of the fluid wanted out – he would keep it captive, for now. He didn't feel like kneeling and coughing anymore. That seemed to lack the dignity he should be afforded now that he was awake.

His eyes blurred, but cleared quickly as his second set of inner eyelids wiped the lens of his eyes clean, showing him a human standing a krogan's length away. Fleshy with too many small bones on the inside and not nearly enough on the outside. None, in fact. Hair. Attached in splotches to the skin of the body – sort of a handle. This hair was red – not like blood, but close. And it didn't splatter, it just formed a ridge of fluff that was of no practical use whatsoever. It had breasts. A female – so it was of some value, but there were already so many humans in the galaxy that one here or there was of no great importance. At least that's what he knew.

He would kill it. Thus would begin the path of glory for . . . himself. How could he establish glory? "Warlord Okeer," rang in the back of his mind. Bah! He was not Warlord Okeer. That was a different krogan. Strong, yes. But his glory was to be his own, not inherited from some other krogan Warlord who was too feeble to keep up with his deeds any longer. But he could not kill without having a title for others to fear.

He rushed at the fleshy thing before him and slammed it against the wall to honor his awakening. It was like the thing had no weight. He pinned it to the wall, pressing his forearm against its throat.

He stared into its close-set eyes, "Human. Female," he said in a way of greeting, "Before you die, I need a name."

The woman choked out a forceful few words, "I am Commander Shepard and your attack must cease immediately."

"Not your name. Mine." The silly, fleshy thing thought that he had asked for its name. This was absurd, because he couldn't care less for what she was called. "I am trained," he explained, "I know things, but the tank…" He struggled with the concept he wanted to impart, "Okeer couldn't implant connection. His words are hollow."

He pondered as the human female dangled against the wall, trying to keep the airways through her slender, breakable neck open. "Warlord, legacy, grunt…" he paused, the human's muscles still straining, "Grunt," he tried. "Grunt was among the last," he took a moment to mentally evaluate the term as his captive continued to hang between his forearm and the bulkhead, "It has no meaning. It'll do."

He turned back to the weak, pathetic, fleshy lump against the wall that claimed to be a leader, "I am Grunt," he stated simply, "If you are worthy of your command, prove your strength and try to destroy me."

"True strength is not found in destruction," she complained, "But in building something of lasting value. That's what your creator, Okeer, did – aren't you supposed to be up to speed on his philosophies?"

"I feel nothing for Okeer's clan or his enemies," Grunt explained, "I will do what I am bred to do – fight and determine the strongest," he growled at the fleshy thing on the wall, "but his imprint has failed. Without a reason that's mine, one fight is as good as any other," he leaned in closer, putting pressure on the throat of the human, but she did not react in fear or pain, "Might as well start with you."

"But you're supposed to be the perfect krogan," she argued, her voice strained, "not every fight is worthy of facing you."

He couldn't disagree with that logic.

"Join me, Grunt," she still showed no fear, "I have been gathering the strongest, fastest, smartest, and most capable individuals in this galaxy – join our clan."

This concept appealed to Grunt. But he sensed the manipulation of words, detestable things. "If you're weak and choose weak enemies, I'll have to kill you."

"Agreed," She stated in a choked voice, "But you don't need to worry. Our enemies are the servants of an ancient race known to have been wiping out entire civilizations over eons with no worthy opposition to stand in their way for many thousands of years. Once we're done with their servants, we'll be fighting this master race itself," she boasted, "To the death."

"Hmmm," Grunt considered this, "Hmph!" Fighting a race that has proven itself without equal across many thousands of years and has never been defeated . . . "That's . . . acceptable," he admitted, "I'll fight for you."

"Good," the woman grinned, "I'm glad I didn't have to convince you that your experience is not up to scratch enough to take me on."

"Hmm?" the krogan felt a soft poke in his mid-section. Looking down revealed a powerful hand gun, now pressed against his less-armored underbelly. "Ha," the krogan laughed as he backed off, letting the woman stand again, "Offer one hand, but arm the other." He looked up at his new ally, impressed, "Wise, Shepard. If I find a clan, if I find what I … I want," he solemnly pledged, "I will be honored to eventually pit them against you."

"Glad to have you on the team, Grunt."


	13. Chapter 13: On the Horizon

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series.**

**Warning: Explicit language.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 13: On the Horizon<span>

The neon orange grid superimposed itself across Shepard's features as she stepped over the space where the briefing room table had just descended into the deck. The prompt from her yeoman regarding the incoming call seemed urgent, with words like "high priority" and "immediate" being injected at key points in the dialogue.

Were the caller any other imperialistic tyrant, she would have ignored him altogether, but Shepard understood that this man knew where they both stood and would not send such a signal unless it were something she would want to respond to as urgently as he did. Otherwise, she would, indeed, lose all respect for the communications they shared and fail to respond to further contact. This had to be big.

The Illusive man did not disappoint.

"Shepard, I think we have them," he stated blandly as his image was projected into the chamber, "Horizon, one of our colonies in the Terminus Systems, just went silent." He sat straight and tall in his command chair in god knows what hidden system somewhere, possibly within the known galaxy. His features as blank as his tone, "If it isn't under attack, it soon will be." He shifted his profile to one side, retaining any true intentions while projecting faux concern, "Has Mordin delivered the countermeasure for the Seeker Swarms?"

"He's been mostly locked in the Science Lab since he was brought on board, but he hasn't confirmed any finding yet," Shepard revealed, with no trace of the same hidden agenda that her counterpart was enjoying.

"Let's hope he works well under pressure," he stated hopefully.

Shepard smirked, "Mordin does everything under pressure."

"There's something else you should know," the Cerberus chief stated blankly as he drew another long puff from his imported tobacco vice, "One of your former crew, Ashley Williams," they name struck home immediately, "She's stationed on Horizon."

Shepard was silent for a moment, "And do we have any intel as to why an Alliance gunnery chief is stationed on a Terminus world?" she asked, her suspicious blatantly apparent in the question.

"Officially, it's an outreach program to improve Alliance relations with the colonies," he offered, "But they're up to something. And if they sent Chief Williams, it must be big."

Shepard mentally summed up the statement from the Illusive Man across the quantum connection: Bullshit. He knew a lot more than he was telling and 'if they sent Chief Williams' it was no coincidence at all – he was the one who was up to something. But accusations would get her nowhere if she had no evidence to bring to bear. So far, his information was all she had available.

He finalized the snippet of knowledge for convenience, "Perhaps you should take it up with her."

Since she had nothing to go on, she might as well set the stage, "It seems odd though, doesn't it, that of all the colonies they could attack, it just so happens that the one they picked has a former crew member of mine on it?"

The Illusive Man motioned to tip his ashes in his hand-engraved, platinum-plated ash tray, "It shouldn't be a surprise the Collectors are interested in you, especially if they're working for the Reapers." He repositioned his gaze onto her, "They may be going after her to get to you."

Her thoughts exactly. She was being used as bait. Probably because the Illusive Man had engineered the situation to make such a maneuver appear a worthy investment on their part. She started to seethe internally. She couldn't let Ashley down, no matter how far apart they may have drifted over the time since they last served together.

"We should contact the Alliance, let them know of the danger – especially if their communications have been cut."

The Illusive Man shook his head, "Not until you investigate. I don't want the Alliance getting in our way. Once you have the situation under control, I'll send the message personally."

"No," Shepard was starting to see the web Lu was weaving and she intended to cut it off before it could enfold her completely, "Send it once I touch down, then we'll have reinforcements at the ready if things get too ugly," she pressed on before he could retaliate, "Give us the coordinates, we'll leave at once."

"This is the most warning we've ever had, Shepard," his voice remained a steady drone, but seemed sincere compared to many of the others he had uttered during this meeting, "Good luck."

He moved a hand to the console and the grid faded accompanied by the sound of immense surging energy being released to a calming hum.

He had staged the attack, she knew it. His statements alone betrayed his thoughts that they would go after one of her former crew if they knew her location was in an undefended colony. She had nothing to go on other than her suspicions, still. But this was as pre-planned as it gets. Unfortunately, it was a sound plan and she couldn't fault him for taking a measure so drastic and manipulative. All she could do now is rush to protect her old friend. . . . and he knew that too.

He did play this game very well. As she somehow expected under the hidden currents of their political engagements, she was overmatched. She didn't trust him. Not for a single second. But he still had her doing his dirty work for him. And, no doubt, this task was a ploy that would counter some salarian gambit or an asari bid for power in some far removed sector of space that she wasn't even aware of. He was very, very good at this game.

The lab doors opened for her revealing the salarian hard at work studying the samples of the Seeker Swarms, his fingers flashing over the surface of a datapad.

She approached directly. In the short amount of time they had been together on the same vessel, Shepard and Mordin had developed a professional trust built on mutual respect and personal trials – Shepard's anyway. It seemed she had needed him more than he needed her. But he seemed to find something more than service in his work on her ship. He had not only embraced this task, he had assimilated into the operations and mission of the entire ship.

She turned from him to the samples in the small tank that held them, then back to him. "Our time is up, have you developed a countermeasure?"

He stared at her, phased not in the least by the urgency of the circumstance and smiled broadly. Rather uncharacteristically, he replied with only one word, "Yes."

* * *

><p><span>Beauty and the Beast<span>

The door opened as Miranda rounded the end of her desk and moved with assurance to the lift. Her orders were clear and open ended. Not specific, the way Cerberus was used to giving them, at least not at the level she was used to dealing with in a project like this. But she had seen the benefits of Shepard's command style and it was even starting to grow on her.

Specific commands were for specific troops in specific fields with specific purposes. That was all well and good. But, their dynamic team required a lot more operational space in the execution of its orders. Even if some of the crew members had specialized skill-sets, they each had an array of abilities that spanned well outside of that specialized skill-set. And with such a varied crew-

She almost stopped dead in her tracks as the nearly-naked biotic stepped from the women's head toward the lift. She had expected Jack to be down in the crawl-spaces of the ship, reading the precious data files that she had not wanted to allow her access to. But, apparently she was still somewhat human – everyone needed to relieve themselves. Privately, she was glad to see that Jack was that civilized. This was better than sending a crew member to "clean up after her" down below.

But now the imposing girl had spotted her as she approached and began to scowl. She immediately hid her feelings for the ex-convict as they both waited for the lift doors to open.

"Well, if it isn't The Law-son," she mocked, putting emphasis on the words 'The Law.' "Don't you have a pep rally to go to or something?"

"Hello Jack," she replied simply, remembering her orders.

"Say," she continued her social attack, "I need to thank you for helping me with those files – you won't believe some of the stuff I've found."

Miranda raised an eyebrow and gave a huff, "You really think I don't know what's in there?" She shifted her stance, putting a hand on one hip, "I won't lie to you Jack, I am upset that Shepard has given you access to those records, but it hasn't put me off so badly that we can't work together. I really admire your biotic abilities, they're astounding." She wasn't lying there. The race she had led through the innards of the Purgatory station went through defense barriers, security walls, and left smoking ruins of YMIR mechs like bread crumbs.

Jack sneered, "You mean, you wouldn't dare try to match me point for point 'cause you know I'd rip off a bulkhead."

Miranda made no attempt to rise to the bait. The lift doors opened at that moment and both women moved to enter. Jack raised a hand at Miranda's approach.

"Uh, you really should think about taking a different car, you think?"

Miranda chuckled openly, "I'm on orders Jack," she continued as she stepped in, "We're dropping planet-side to respond to a Collector attack. Didn't you know?"

Jack stood in the doorway of the lift, piqued by Miranda's confession, but unwilling to enter the elevator alone with her.

Miranda gestured to Jack's position, "You're blocking the door, I really shouldn't keep Shepard waiting, she wants Grunt and I in the away team as soon as possible," she casually gestured, "But you're welcome to join me on the ride down."

Jack sauntered deeper into the lift, "What? Is she afraid I'll go rogue on my first mission?" She turned to face front in the car as she complained.

Miranda deliberately frowned, "Engineering, EDI," she spoke, then switched back to Jack, "What do you mean?"

"Nobody told me we were landing," she vented. "Is she afraid she can't control me or something?"

"No," Miranda commented matter-of-factly, "She was sure you'd be busy going through the Cerberus databases." This seemed to earn more suspicion from the tough, "Besides, she wants to have a krogan down there in case the countermeasures don't work," she returned to her 'shop-talk' method of earning Jack's favor – or rather her non-violence.

She didn't actually know if that's why Shepard had called for Grunt to be on the away team, but it seemed a logical choice. They knew the seeker swarms were effective against humans, but they had no information how they reacted to other organics. Krogans, by definition, were a good choice for an anti-body to the seeker swarms. Their multiple redundant organ structure assured that if any creature could resist the stasis effects of the swarms, it would be the krogan.

"I could block out whatever they've got," Jack boasted.

"I know," Miranda conceded the point easily, then took another jab for equal measure, "I wish Shepard would put you in the party."

Jack seemed to be disarmed. She had nothing left to say as the doors opened onto the Engineering deck. They crossed paths as Jack went for the gangway to the underside of the ship and Miranda turned for the cargo hold.

She found Grunt pacing slowly, pondering. He regarded her casually as she stepped in.

"Hello Grunt," she said breezily, "I am Miranda Lawson, administrator for this mission."

Grunt stared blankly back at her, "So?"

"We're up on the next drop. Shepard wants you in the away team."

He changed his stance slightly, "And?"

Miranda smiled at his naiveté, "And I am to be your liaison from here on out," she checked her pistol and fastenings as she continued, "I am to guide you through this mission and others."

"A baby-sitter?" Grunt objected. Apparently he had been researching humans, human customs, and social interactions and found this one to his dislike. "You're not needed, go away."

"Take it up with Shepard," was her quick reply, "But ultimately, I'm not here to chaperone you Grunt, I'm here to cover anything the tank may have missed."

Grunt tightened his fists as his apparent ire rose.

Miranda could see why Shepard wanted her in this capacity and was glad that she recognized Miranda's talent with managing people. Grunt was the epitome of tactlessness and blunt unfamiliarity. But this was nothing for her interpersonal navigation skills. "Like subtle clues that may," she pointed to his clenched fists, "Give away your intentions in a fight."

He frowned and looked down at his fists then back up at Miranda.

She shifted to one hip, "Grunt, you've never ventured out of this room – you must know that a billion things are headed your way that you've never been able to prepare for." She gestured casually with her free hand, "Shepard wants you to have support, that's all."

"I don't need support," Grunt responded, his hands relaxing.

"Then this will be an embarrassingly easy assignment for me," Miranda admitted openly. Grunt smirked and she grinned, "Look, Grunt," she stepped forward, "I'm not going to get in your way, I'm going to be there to aid you when you need it."

"How could you aid me?" Grunt asked in earnest, "You're a little fleshy thing, with a handle and no bones on the outside."

This was a krogan, she had to remind herself, not a child. He wanted to fight. She had to give him a reason why he would want to fight with her and not against. She crossed her arms, "And so is Shepard, but you followed her when you could have fought her."

"She is a very wise and tactical person," Grunt offered in opposition.

"And she placed me in the position of liaison to you," Miranda followed on the logic, "You see? This is what I'm talking about. The tank couldn't give you the experience to know that someone is dangerous even though they don't look it."

"You're not dangerous," the krogan dismissed.

Miranda's eye brow lifted.

A silence grew between them. A silence engineered by the Cerberus leader to foster the doubt she knew would aid her with this new crew member. Grunt looked her over for a moment, then added, "Are you?"

She casually shifted her stance again, eyebrow still raised.

The silence started circling them both, Miranda staying comfortably still and Grunt, increasingly curious.

Grunt studied her for weaknesses and potential threats, his head cocking to one side then the other, squinting, trying to look from every angle without giving away that he was scrutinizing her (with no luck at the deception) before noting movement on the hangar deck, outside the observation window that looked into the bay. He looked back at her then took a pace back with a snort.

"Okay, maybe you are dangerous, but I sure can't tell how," he gestured in frustration, "So if you are, then Shepard is right and I'm wrong, and I guess you can join me."

Miranda suppressed a chuckle as she turned and walked out of the cargo hold. Grunt would reluctantly follow and begin learning about the art of subtlety.


	14. Chapter 14: Harbinger

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters, settings, or intellectual property of the Mass Effect series.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 14: Harbinger<span>

She leaned in closer to study the unmoving figure. It was like the colonist was frozen in time; his eyes were open and warily peeking toward the entrance of the storage compartment he was hiding in, hands nervously fidgeting at the level of his stomach. A membrane of some strange energy swirled around his aura like some kind of orange fog. He wasn't breathing, blinking, or moving in any way.

And he wasn't the first that the ground team had encountered. There were a string of unmoving bodies going back through half the compound. Fortunately, it seemed that this energy aura was also impenetrable, as they learned during their firefight against the collectors had progressed along the ground.

Grunt had took one of the forms as an enemy as they rounded a corner and set off a shotgun blast at point blank range before Shepard and Miranda had realized what he was shooting at and Miranda had called him off. He hadn't meant to fire on a civilian, but he had never met one before. Fortunately, Grunt was a very fast learner, and the stasis field protected the human completely from the blast.

"Sorry," Grunt apologized directly to the bystander when they wondered aloud if they were aware of their surroundings, "I meant to kill whoever did this to you."

"Good move, Grunt," Miranda approved, "That should cover ourselves if they do know what's going on around them."

"Cover ourselves?" Grunt questioned.

"We may not be here to explain ourselves by the time they come out of it," she explained. "Otherwise, people will think whatever they imagine, and it usually isn't good to let their minds race with the possibilities."

"Hmph," was Grunt's only reply.

But now they had found at least a half-dozen settlers in various unmovable poses. This gave Shepard hope – the collectors hadn't finished their grisly chores before they were interrupted.

They turned and continued their tour of the settlement, looking for survivors, enemies, and a way to bring the ship that had "parked" on the outskirts of the village to ruin.

The doors opened into a staging field. They had made a few steps when collectors rose over the walls and descended onto the other side of the field. Miranda managed to shout a warning, "Incoming!" The group drew weapons and scattered for cover.

As Shepard slid into place, she spotted one of their numbers begin to glow from beneath their strange flesh, as though it were slowly exploding from the inside. The form lifted into the air and a halo of energy surrounding it seemed to crackle and burst. At the same moment, Shepard "heard" it speak.

"Assuming direct control of this form."

But the sound did not come from the collector floating in the air and now blasting energy in every direction, then dropping to the ground with smoldering eyes. The sound seemed to come from everywhere. It was like it was projecting its thoughts out into the open and they rebounded and ricocheted from every surface.

"We are Harbinger," it spoke in deep, resonant tones, loudly and clearly.

They opened fire on the collector forces that had amassed, forcing them to take cover as well – all except the glowing one with smoldering eyes.

It raised a hand and emitted a blast of energy toward her, speaking into her, "You will know pain, Shepard."

The blast hit the wall, but seemed to seep through, causing wracking pain in her hands and joints. She suddenly felt older, like her body had just run a marathon and could no longer continue without rest.

"I know you feel this, Shepard."

This phenomenon was a new experience for her. A Reaper had taken control of one of the collectors and it was being directly applied against her. This was a battlefield precedent that she had no time to examine in any detail at the moment.

She took aim over the barricade and shot at the glowing thing.

It advanced on her, even as it directed another bolt of energy toward her, "The forces of the universe bend to me."

She ejected an incendiary charge at the thing and followed up by emptying her pistol. She'd test that theory and see if her tactics were forces of the universe. She found herself retaliating to the voice.

The other collectors had targeted her also, though. Her shields came down as another bolt of energy from the glowing thing found its mark. She ducked behind cover, but the pain seemed to sear through her being, causing her to grit her teeth. Her knees strained a complaint. Her wrists seemed like they were in a vise.

However, focusing fire on Shepard wasn't the best tactical move to make on this playing field.

"Get those shooters off Shepard," Miranda ordered as she slammed in another clip and charged her omnitool for another jolt of power.

Grunt may have been waiting for the order, or maybe he saw the opportunity at the same time Miranda did. Either way – he charged down one of the bug-eyed things, slamming it against a rail and breaking its spine. Then he turned his shotgun to the one standing next to it and put a gaping hole in its chest.

"Weak!" He exclaimed.

The glowing form seemed indifferent. Without cover, relentlessly, it threw another glob of energy at Shepard, "My attacks will tear you apart."

She could sense it hitting the wall and seeping through again. It wasn't as painful as a direct hit, but it seemed she couldn't counter an indirect hit at all. She reached for her sniper rifle. The newly outfitted one Jacob and Garrus presented her with for this trip. She had wanted to give it a try before using it in the field – but the acid test was upon it now.

"This hurts you," the glowing thing intoned into everywhere.

She swung over the barrier and took only a moment to put the crosshairs between all of its eyes. Three bullets shot out in rapid succession. The recoil of the first two shots were transferred from inside the weapon and used to fire the subsequent rounds rather than throw off the trajectory of the shot. Such firepower in such repetition was guaranteed to bring down all but the most powerful shields, fields, and armor.

The head of the thing blasted open, causing it to burst into flames and fall to a smoldering pile of ash. But the noise continued, "This form is irrelevant."

She turned to line up one of the new arrivals as they floated in from over the wall. She pulled a head shot on one of them as another began to burst with energy, lifting from the ground.

"Assuming control."

She took her eye from the scope. She would need to fight this Harbinger all over again. How many times?

"You will suffer, Shepard."

She dived back under cover to brace for the energy bolt that she knew was on its way. This "Harbinger" version of the monsters they were fighting would be problematic if it was going to be present in every battle.

She spun over the wall again and took aim, plugging three more shots into this new Harbinger's head. She could tell it did the damage, but this one was still alive.

"Stop, Shepard," she heard the voice reverberate from the universe, "Your attack is an insult."

She ejected an incendiary charge as she ducked back under cover to reload. She popped the clip from the rifle and slid a new one in its place while she took a moment to visualize the field of battle. It was only a public yard, the small walls erected in places to provide structure for where walking should occur. There were no specific tactical advantages or disadvantages to the site. She stood, brazenly, reacting on human instinct.

The Harbinger ejected another blast of energy at her, "You cannot win."

She rolled behind the barricade, the energy hitting and seeping through at a point where she was at no longer. She took aim over the wall and took another triple-shot at it, bringing down its renewed barrier.

The smoldering eyes looked back into her defiant ones, "I am unstoppable."

_So am I_

Her aim went precisely to the brain center, putting three holes in its new head.

She learned later that Grunt had incapacitated the last one to death by beating on it with a large crate. She was still staring at the smoldering pile of ash in disbelief.

That was her inner voice. The one she had been trying to communicate with for hours in her cabin. The one that had been her only reality when she was dead. The one that seemed to have an inside scoop on this whole situation. It said it was unstoppable.

And so it was. It was there after the rest of her had gone. Was her inner voice a match for Harbinger?

She had no time to determine that now. She could only take solace in that the voice was on her side.

They found the bunker the collectors were trying to open and broke the encryption on the locks. Inside they found a technician who hadn't been frozen and learned of the events of the day. Apparently, Gunnery Chief Williams had been stationed on Horizon to implement a set of defense turrets that couldn't be correctly calibrated.

They used the configuration of the bunker's wiring to boost a signal to the Normandy and brought EDI in on the plan. She was to calibrate the defense systems and bring them up on line as they defended the transmission tower. It was a good plan and it would allow them to fight back against the collectors "tube of death."

They prepped for their next run into the field, but rather than check her weapons and gear (the standard prep), Shepard did something else.

She knelt down, leaning against the door they were to exit for support and let her cognizance drift as she explored what was underneath her mind. She found herself mentally talking to herself again. The way she had done earlier on the ship with no results.

"Hello?" she thought to herself, "Please, I need to understand this," she hesitated then closed her eyes to cut out more of the reality of her physical presence. "Can you speak to me?"

She experienced nothing of what she had found to be her own voice in her mind, other than the conscious pleadings she was making.

"You said you were unstoppable," she thought to herself. Then she corrected her thoughts, she had said that _she_ was unstoppable. And that was true. "You were there when I was dead – I mean, I was there." She mentally sighed with exasperation, "But I wasn't me, I was . . . you."

She felt amused with herself for the play on words she was undergoing to get to her own truth. "Are you me? The real me? Underneath all of who I'm supposed to be?" Again, no response. But she had already guessed the truth. The voice she was trying to talk to was the part of herself that had continued on in restful existence after she had died . . . her own soul.

The realization that she'd already been toying with under the issue sent a shiver up her spine. She was unstoppable in that respect.

"Am I fighting for my soul?" she thought. No, she realized that her soul was already intact – it had been "startled" (if you can startle a soul) when she was brought back to life, but it was still with her, and if she hadn't suffered any damage to her soul by this point, then she was still okay.

"What is Harbinger? What am I up against?" Still nothing. But her thoughts turned in a new direction upon mulling over it. She would continue to be unsuccessful in interrogating her owl soul. It was not a tactical thing on the level that she was considering tactics. A soul had a different reality, she was coming to understand. The mundane existence of exactly what Harbinger was held no importance whatsoever.

"What should I do?" This wasn't a plea for help. It was an undeniable release of authority to her own inner self. No voice was heard. There was no response still. Except . . .

She immediately rose to her feet, checked her pistol and turned to her troops. "Let's move out," her words were strong and bold and unquestioned. She opened the door and moved with more direction and purpose than she had ever felt in the past.

Her military training moved her feet without conscious effort. They rounded a corner and came upon a living compound. She sensed movement ahead. Husks were dropping from the roof of the building the team was approaching.

"Incoming," Shepard announced, "Engage."

"On it," Miranda echoed. Grunt let out a happy roar of anger.

Collectors floated down from the roof as well, and one of them emitted a glowing light as it rose into the air.

"Watch for flanking."

"Your form is fragile," the thing spoke to her again.

_But I am not my form._

She aimed over the wall and started taking out the multiple shooters in the upper parts of the building.

"If I must tear you apart, Shepard," Harbinger warned, "I will."

_I am invincible. Face me._

Miranda and Grunt worked well together – Grunt being a krogan and Miranda taking opportunities to pick off his injured foes before they could fully recuperate.

"We are your genetic destiny."

_We are without genetic superiors._

Shepard turned her aim to harbinger and saw something beyond sight. It was a shell. A shell of energy inside the body of a husk. She aimed at the chest on a whim and it burst open in reaction to the shot. It's fragile nature disrupted by the lack of a physical form to encompass it. This was only a vehicle for a formless occupant.

She was astounded by the revelation, though it was not that much, really, but it bore her through the rest of the battle. The way it has struck her brought her awareness of the universe into a different perspective. She was somehow larger and smaller at the same time; larger in that something about the universe had just opened up for her, smaller in that, the more of the universe there seemed to be now, the more tiny she seemed to be in comparison to it.

She advanced toward the doors of the compound's telemetric tower with a newfound vitality.

The courtyard was filled with husks and the abominable scions, half-man half-brute amalgamations of technical sorcery.

"Take out those husks," Shepard commanded, "I'll deal with the scions. And watch out for their wave attacks. Stay loose."

"Got it," Miranda pulled her machine pistol and started side-stepping as Shepard activated her stealth field.

Grunt drove through a densely packed group of bluish zombies, only to be thrown back by the kinetic disturbance hurled by the scions.

Shepard was into a "rinse and repeat" tactic: Stealth to a good vantage point, take careful aim on a critical spot on the scion, shoot, evade the husks that converged on her now visible form, and start over again. The team worked well to thinning the numbers and eliminating the threat, giving EDI the time to calibrate the weapon systems and power up the defense turrets.

The trio watched as the rock-like vessel powered up and blasted off from the planet's surface. Miranda reflexively glanced about to ensure the ground threat was indeed neutralized, while Grunt called after them, scratches on his face

"Bah! Cowards!" He spread his arms wide, "Flee then. You are no match for us!"

"No," the voice of the technician they had just left in the bunker shouted as he ran out toward the departing craft, "Don't let them get away."

Shepard continued to stare, feeling hollow about their victory, or rather, unsure of how to feel.

"Half the colony's in there," the mechanic railed, "They took Egan, and Sam, and Lilith." He turned to the three in desperation, "Do something!"

Shepard continued to stare. "We did everything we could do," she said simply, as though stating a plain fact as easily as the state of the weather. "They're gone."

_They're not really gone, of course._

Grunt pounded his fist into his hand, "It was still a good fight, Shepard."

"Shepard?" the groundskeeper turned, "Wait, I know that name."

"Commander Shepard," the speaker was walking into the compound behind the mechanic. "Captain of the Normandy," she stated proudly, "The first human Spectre," her eyes were bright with respect, "Savior of the Citadel," Ashley Williams stood face to face with the Commander.

She turned to regard the technician, "You're in the presence of a god, Delan," then turned back to face her, "Back from the dead."

She and Ashley had been the fastest of friends. They're "Girls Night Out" romps were the stuff of legends. Garrus and Tali made complaints constantly whenever they had one due to the damage they had to repair on the land rover.

The "Girl's Night Out" was the reference Ashley made to every time they would disembark in the Mako to investigate something planet-side; usually Jennifer, Ashley, and Liara would be the team. Jenn and Ash secretly took bids to see who could make Liara scream the loudest – Ashley thought she had it when the Mako fell from a thousand foot cliff and rolled into a ditch that required a Mass Effect pulse to escape from, but the Commander was the clear winner with a drive over mountainous terrain at full speed that only ended when the Mako's axle broke, about 45 minutes into the excursion.

The dangerous piloting skills that each brought to the wheel was a rush of exhilaration for both of them and a panic attack for Liara, though, she eventually got used to it. They would laugh each other hoarse while the asari used additional straps to secure herself in and couldn't look away as they hurdled headlong into a pit, over a steep ravine, or nearly straight up the side of a mountain, ready to pitch backward at any moment.

This only worked with Liara though, Tali was made of stronger stuff, but both were afraid of causing damage to her suit. Wrex found nothing amusing about any of the trips, in fact he commented once about the smooth ride and how jaded they all were with such a posh piece of machinery.

The moments were just a while ago to her:

"Ash, Liara, let's take the Mako and have a look."

"I call shotgun!"

"I do not use a shotgun."

"Then you sit in the back."

"Not again," Liara would protest, "Can I please have the shotgun?"

"You really want to be in the front?"

Liara would make an uneasy noise, but the lure of knowledge she could unearth before anyone else would always get the better of her, sending Ashley into a new fit of laughter.

Her brown eyes scrutinized Shepard for a long moment, then her smile broadened and she held out a hand, "I thought you were dead Commander."

She grasped the hand of her friend and shook it solidly.

"We all did."

The events of the day were rolling past her. This re-acquaintance made everything worthwhile.

"How have you been?" she found herself saying.

Ash's smile faltered, "That's it?" she pulled her hand back, "You show up after two years and act like nothing has happened?"

The young woman took a more offensive stance, leaning in, "I would have followed you anywhere, Commander," she spat, "I thought you were gone, I-" She stopped.

Years of loss shown across her friends face. A sudden gap of time that didn't exist at all for Shepard was now apparent between them.

"Ash," Shepard tried to reconnect.

"You were more than our Commander," Chief Williams explained, "Why didn't you try to contact me? Why didn't you let me know you were alive?"

"I wasn't," Shepard confessed. Here was an opening, someone she could discuss this unbelievable experience with. She might finally be able to make some sense of this bizarre phenomenon if she could sit and talk with Ashley. "I was dead, Ashley. Cerberus spent the last two years rebuilding me, and now-"

"Cerberus?" Ashley's voice went cold. "So the reports were true." She started backing away slowly, cautiously, "I didn't want to believe-"

"Cerberus spent a fortune to resuscitate me, Ashley," she was losing her, "I only became conscious again a few days ago."

"So you're working for Cerberus now? After all they've done? After Admiral Kihoku?"

"I'm not working with Cerberus," she asserted, "Cerberus is working with me."

"Do you really believe that," she advanced, this time with the aire of an antagonist, "Or is that just what Cerberus wants you to think?"

"Ash-"

"I wanted to believe you were alive, I just," her voice started to crack from the emotion, "never expected anything like this."

"You know me," she pleaded, "You know I would never do anything outside of my duty." She turned to the skies that were only a moment ago filled with the enormous ship fleeing from their attack. "You saw it yourself, the Collectors are targeting human colonies," she turned back to Williams, "And they're working with the Reapers."

"I'd like to believe you, Shepard," the chief's face had turned to stone, "But I don't trust Cerberus – and it worries me that you do."

"Ashley," she tried to get through to her sense of reason, "It's me. You know me." Very few people in the galaxy did know Shepard as well. Or at least, she thought she did.

"What did they do to you?" she said skeptically, "What if they're behind it? What if they're the ones working with the Collectors?"

"Typical," Miranda commented from behind, "You're so focused on Cerberus that you're blind to the real threat."

"Miranda," Shepard half turned.

"Don't you see? They thought Cerberus was behind the abductions," Operative Lawson folder her arms, "That's why they sent her."

Shepard turned fully to look at the Cerberus Administrator.

"They heard rumors that you were alive and with Cerberus, so they sent her because they thought they would be luring us into their trap," Miranda dropped a hand to her hip, "It's lucky for you that we came, otherwise the Collectors would have gotten you too."

Jennifer realized that she was right. The Alliance has the impression that Cerberus is the force behind the colonist's disappearances.

"Ash," she turned back to face the hardened marine, "You know I would never work against the Alliance. Regardless of how things got to be where they are now, the problem is the Collectors, and they are working with the Reapers, I know that for a fact."

"It doesn't matter," she said matter-of-factly, looking back at Shepard, almost with pity, "I still know where my loyalties lie," she stood proudly, "I'm an Alliance soldier – it's in my blood."

Staring in the face of hopelessness, Shepard had nothing left to say.

Williams turned around, "I'm reporting back to the Citadel," she began retracing her steps to the bunker, "I'll let them decide if they believe your story."

She stood, hand slightly outstretched, "Ash," but she had run out of words.

The chief turned once more, "Goodbye, Shepard," then, as an afterthought as she was turning away again, "Try to take care of yourself."

* * *

><p><span>Fly on the Wall<span>

She had found a comfortable position, she only shifted a bit. If the table was in the way, she only needed to move around slightly to reposition herself. It was perfect.

She did a pouty frown as he shifted stances in order to manage the refit of the weapon across the room. He was working on an upgrade to the machine pistol; something to take the kick from the recoil and make it easier to aim during discharge.

She could care less. It was an excellent excuse for him to flex and bend and grunt. She especially liked it when he would exert himself. She suddenly wondered if she should care. Maybe there was more exertion to be offered in upgrading, say, a shotgun. She would suggest that to Kelly also – it was Jacob's job after all.

He had no clue she was there of course. She almost made an audible sigh once and he had looked around. But then she remembered that she wasn't looking at him through the ships scanners and shut up so her cloak would continue to conceal her whereabouts.

Now she just rested her cheek on her curled fingers and stared dreamily at the contours of his posterior as he continued to apply torque to his unit. Her grin widened as she contemplated the kind of torque she could apply to his-

The door to the CIC opened, Shepard storming in followed by Miranda and Grunt. A voice was calling after them, "…already on the channel."

"Good!" Shepard spat as she hurled her assault rifle down on the deck. It bounced across the floor to Jacob's feet, as she reached for the sniper rifle, "I've got a few choice words for our generous sponsor."

"Commander?" Jacob seemed a bit startled, "How did it perform?"

Shepard stopped in mid-reach for her sidearm, "What?" She was obviously distracted by the question, but her expression was that of outrage.

Jacob gestured to the sniper rifle she had placed forcefully on the rack, "The rifle," he clarified, "Did it meet your specs?"

"Oh," Shepard proceeded to unholster her pistol, "Excellent," she remarked darkly, "best I've ever fired." But she casually tossed the weapon on the table and stomped toward the briefing room as the others removed their weaponry for cleaning and storage.

Miranda looked warily behind the commander as she exited from the room. Grunt seemed to be . . . giggling.

"Must be," Jacob intoned softly as he bent to pick up the assault rifle, "it was the only gun she didn't throw around."

Kasumi was torn: on the one hand, there was Jacob, bending over to retrieve a man's weapon which he would no doubt place lovingly back on the rack, and then retrieve the rest. On the other, Shepard was in a towering fit of temper and was no doubt going to have a heated discussion and let it all out and her curiosity was ablaze over the matter. But there was Jacob – and he would, of course, start cleaning the guns, and bending, and stretching, and effort, and making man-sounds. And the doorway was about to close behind Shepard.

She swiveled and made her way through the door and quickly into the briefing room. She would have to sneak into Zaeed's quarters later when he was doing that thing he does in the bathroom and check the logs to watch Jacob later. This was too much to pass up.

No dark corner presented itself in the brightly lit room, so the slight oriental girl made herself as small as possible in the corner beside the door. Shepard stood fuming as the table retracted into the floor, but stopped short, as if she had just remembered something imminent. She brought both hands to her brows and stood in contemplation as the room started to dim.

"What do I do about it?" she spoke aloud to no one at all.

The doors opened, and Jacob entered the room at the same moment.

"I just saved myself a trip," thought Kasumi as she grinned up at Jacob's profile. His full body profile. His . . . very full body profile. Then she frowned as the agent started searching the room.

"About what?" he asked, apparently concluding that she was either talking to him or to herself.

The electric orange grid started forming from the floor up, Shepard still frozen in thought.

Jacob took a mild step back, "Should I leave?" he offered tentatively, "Not a problem-" he started to assure her.

Shepard waved a hand back toward him, "No, stand by." She stepped into the circle of energy with a more calm exterior and voice. You wouldn't even had thought that she just slammed an assault weapon down on the deck about as hard as anyone would ever care to.

Kasumi made a confused exchange between the bi-polar behavior of Shepard, now painted with an orange grid, and Jacob, who had resumed the military position of "at-ease" awaiting further orders. Part of her confusion was that events were somehow more interesting than she could stand and she desperately wanted more details. The other part was confused because she still wanted to be watching Jacob at the moment, as the orange glow reflected over portions of his body. Full portions . . . Finely angled portions . . . Portions that-

A projection of a man sitting comfortably in a chair appeared on the opposite side of the room, drawing her attention away again. He seemed fully adult and had a nice enough look to him. But he was composed of a grid or light and didn't look at all like Jacob, who was even now drawing her attention back.

"Shepard," a disembodied voice emitted from the structure of light, "Good work on Horizon. Hopefully the Collectors will think twice about abducing another colony."

Shepard replied calmly, obviously resisting her prior rage that was evident upon entering the chamber. "I, on the other hand, believe that it won't slow them down in the slightest, they did fly away from this fight with over half the colony."

"That's better than an entire colony," the man countered hopefully, "and more than we've accomplished since the abductions began. The Collectors will be more careful now, but I think we can find another way to lure them in."

"You sound certain," Shepard spoke softly, placing one hand on her hip, "and speaking of using a lure, I should point out that the Alliance has the impression that I am now a Cerberus agent."

Kasumi's eyebrows raised slightly, a grin forming on her lips. Jacob, once again, delegated to the "waiting" concerns for the moment. This she was not aware of. She knew, of course, but she only knew that Shepard was involved with their operations, not actually one of them. The galaxy loves a scandal.

The man in the light tipped his ashes into an ashtray as he continued slowly, "I may have let it slip that you were alive," he paused briefly, "and with Cerberus."

"And apparently, you also let it slip that Cerberus would be having something to do with the abduction of human colonies on Horizon, putting all those people in danger as well?"

"A calculated risk." He responded.

"I see," Shepard remained clam but her tone was becoming slightly dangerous, "So you must have been delighted when they assigned Chief Williams to Horizon, the very bait you designed for this mission?"

"I suspected the Collectors were looking for you or people connected to you, now I know for certain."

"I will keep that in mind when you have need of further missions for me and my crew," Shepard commented.

"I told you I wouldn't sit and wait while the Reapers and Collectors gather strength," the glowing man said defensively. "Bedsides they would have hit another colony eventually and without a way to predict which one, they would have abducted everyone."

Shepard allowed the hand on her hip to rejoin the other behind her back, taking a strong stance of defiance, "So you would rather select the innocent people who get attacked instead of other, more humane ways of determining their attack patterns?" She raised her voice slightly, "You do remember that I am committed to stopping attacks on innocent civilians rather than instigating them, right?"

The man snapped back, "I want the collectors stopped for that very reason. That's why we're doing this Shepard. I'm devoting all resources to finding a way through the Omega 4 relay." Kasumi's eyes flew wide open. "We have to hit them where they live. Your team will need to be strong, as will their resolve. There's no looking back."

Kasumi mentally reeled at the notion. The Omega 4 relay was infamous as a great unknown that only gets people killed. There was no known record of all the ships that have attempted to use the relay only to never be seen or tracked again. But suddenly, a small curious part of her imagined what it would be like to crack the Omega 4 relay's code. To break into that vault and find what riches could be found. She had never admired the problem from this angle before and the prospects were . . . unlimited.

The glowing figure of orange continued speaking to Shepard through her admiration of the problem, "The same goes for you. Can I assume you've put your past relationships behind you?"

Shepard tilted her head slightly, "You can assume what you like, Lu, you already do, apparently."

"If it affects the mission," he continued briskly, "better you should leave it behind." He started speaking in a fatherly fashion all of the sudden, "Shepard, once you find a way through the Omega 4 relay to the Collector home-world, there's no guarantee you'll return. To have any hope of surviving you and your entire team must be fully committed to this." Kasumi started to feel sorry for Shepard, she would have had everything in that man's pocket by now and wouldn't need to listen to another word he said, regardless of him being a holographic projection.

"Your strong point," Shepard returned, "does not lie in managing a team of committed operatives. I suggest you back off and let me do what you brought me back for."

A smile lit up on the Oriental's face. That was a good one. She was a bit disappointed to see that the other man wasn't pouting. In fact his face hadn't changed a bit.

"I just want to be up front about your odds. You'll need everyone at their best. I've forwarded three more dossiers. Keep building your team while I find a way through the relay. And be careful Shepard, the Collectors will be watching you."

Shepard had already turned and was slowly stepping from the table's surface as the grid went down, and the lighting began to increase. When she cleared the surface, the table began to rise into the room again.

Jacob had been leaning against the door frame, but now he crossed his arms, waiting for Shepard to approach, "I guess we're really going to do it, hit the Omega 4 relay." He spoke as softly as Shepard had in the conference, "Take the fight to the Collectors in person - looking forward to the action. After seeing what those bastards did on Horizon though, makes you think."

Shepard seemed to shrug, "I'm not so interested in what they do anymore, we need to know why they do it. We need to get more information to try and figure out why they need so many captives."

"No argument there Commander." Jacob agreed, "Horizon just made it hit home. What we're doing, what we're up against." He paused reflectively, "Gonna go take care of a little unfinished business. I imagine everyone else is too, get some closure. You know?"

Shepard nodded and Jacob stepped from the room, his posterior muscles moving rhythmically to his stride. Very rhythmically. With almost an hypnotic- The doors slid closed.

Shepard stood pondering for a moment, not staring at the door, but beyond it. Once she had reached whatever conclusion she would come to, Kasumi would try to regain her observation post, behind Jacob.

"Safety in numbers," Shepard muttered. "His weakness lies in his inability to see the human soul."

Kasumi found this to be an interesting statement, seeing as she didn't believe in a soul. Perhaps Shepard was more religious than she seemed. It really wasn't her business. But some religious people have small idols or valuable piece of artwork in their personal belongings. Depending on the denomination of her following, there might be a market for-

"I may need your help," Shepard suggested out loud to the door.

Was it to the door? That seemed like a strange thing to say if you are talking to yourself.

"Have you looked over the ships inner defenses to your satisfaction yet?"

A slight look of surprise struck Kasumi's face. She had been discovered! This N7 was better than she looked! (And she looked pretty formidable at that.)

She stood and dropped the cloak. "How'd you know?"

"I saw the shimmer off the field when the grid was still up," she said, still staring at the door. Then she turned to face her directly, "Couldn't have been helped at that range."

"Better than right behind the holo, I suppose," she admitted. She immediately thought that perhaps she could have secured a position closer to the ceiling, a suspension line or hook or something, and looked to see if that might be a good way to avoid detection in future visits to watch the live show. Then she remembered that her employer was standing not two feet away from her and watching her every move. She could have been more apologetic about eavesdropping on her secure conversations, but somehow she felt that Shepard was more relieved that she was here than angry about it.

"Well," she started in the way of answering her question, "I haven't really been casing the ship – this is a headquarters, right? Secure and-"

She stopped as Shepard's half-smile and change of posture to crossed arms over her chest told her that she wasn't buying into the lie.

The oriental girl started wringing her hands slightly as she changed tack, "There's an underdeck that can get you through most of the ship, but there are security points at all of the decks, so really you can only get from one unsecured location to another."

Shepard's raised eyebrow added to the effect she had started, "But you can bypass all of those except for the computer core and the fuel systems," Jennifer spoke knowingly.

To heck with it, Kasumi thought. She was fully discovered, Shepard knows a good professional when she sees one, "Oh no, I can get into the fuel systems. The only spot I think I'd have trouble with is the computer core, and that's because it has an AI."

"And normally," Shepard continued for her, "You'd be able to hack that system, right?"

"Well," the thief paused briefly from the emotional pain, still present, "hacking wasn't my specialty, actually. But it doesn't matter, because only an idiot tries to get past an AI." She made the statement deliberately, because there was an AI present, listening to every word they both said.

"That shouldn't be necessary at any rate," Shepard dismissed. "I need you to be prepared with a way to get to three key locations within the ship at a moment's notice without detection," her arms unfolded, "all within a matter of minutes. Can you do that?"

"Sure," Kasumi offered brightly, "which three?"

Shepard smirked and moved for the door, "We'll figure that out when the time comes."

Instinctively, the stealthy field went up just as the doors opened, making it seem to anyone who had been watching from the outside that Shepard was leaving the room just as she had entered, alone.


End file.
